


hubris

by digital



Series: the commander [2]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: it's a disaster and a mess, this is jsut.... me self indulgently writing what my commander does for the second half of ls4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21638494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/digital/pseuds/digital
Summary: the commander has depression, gets shot twice, and realises he's not as important as everyone's made him out to be
Series: the commander [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559800
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

“What happened to not keeping secrets?”

The Commander felt the hand on his wrist before he registered that someone was talking to him - he had zoned out, taking a moment to unfocus outside the makeshift stables that had been sectioned off from the entrance to Sun’s Refuge. He was holding a bucket he’d intended to fill with water for his raptor - a striped jarin the colour of sandstone that was currently watching him closely from behind the fence, snorting gentle puffs of air in the direction of his face.

“Taimi.” Oleraco held the bucket in one hand so he could rub his face with the other. He could feel Taimi’s eyes, adhered intensely to him, waiting for an answer to a question he’d barely managed to absorb. She was keeping her voice low, and nobody else in the sanctuary seemed to be taking any notice of them - whether or not they were keeping their eyes averted on purpose was anyone’s guess. The impatient raptor extended a claw from within the enclosure to tap forcefully against the bucket, heaving its rider back into the present. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” Her voice was slightly louder now, though nobody was nearby - not close enough to hear the irritation (was that what it was?) in her tone, anyway. Oleraco, in the back of his mind, was scrambling to remember what he’d been doing, and what he wanted to do after that was done. Maybe he was tired, and maybe he needed a break, but resting was easier said than done when everyone was looking to you to stop an Elder Dragon from eating everything in the world. 

The raptor watching him made an irritated clicking sound as he placed the bucket gingerly on the ground besides the stables. “We don’t have time for this.”

“You’ve been quiet since you got back from Amnoon.”

This morning, and the first time he’d gone outside in days. They had all the scouts they needed to report on the situation with the rifts and protect citizens from Branded attacks - Oleraco had to focus on plans and strategies and reassuring Aurene that the visions were wrong and she’d be fine. (She was coming around to the idea, but she could only be as convinced as Oleraco was - and he wasn’t.)

“Sorry. I’ll try to be less quiet in future.”

“Commander.”

She hadn’t found that funny, or in any way endearing, as he had intended it to be. Her hand was back on his wrist, tighter this time, and pulling him gently towards the centre pedestal. Oleraco didn’t respond to this, and though he wasn’t, physically, the strongest, the mere fact that he was three times Taimi’s size was a convenient bonus in resisting. 

Someone else finally noticed their dispute - from out of the corner of his eye, Oleraco noticed a blur of glistening blue, before watching Aurene touch down a few metres away. She stayed put at first, one front claw scratching at the ground with uncertainty as she watched. “Aurene!” Taimi had turned her head to face the dragon, cocking it in Oleraco’s direction. “Help me out!”

“What?”

Oleraco tried his best to dodge as, following a moment of what seemed to be internal debate, Aurene came barrelling towards him, but his usual speedy reflexes weren’t at their peak in the current moment. The force of her run knocked him backwards as she planted both front talons into his chest - in the moment, Oleraco noted how it seemed she was being very careful to avoid touching him with her claws, which he appreciated - sending him crashing back into the wooden palisade on the side of the raptor enclosure, the sturdy logs not giving even slightly under their combined weight. Aurene took to the air to avoid crashing face-first into the structure; her champion was not so lucky.

Taimi lost her smile quickly as she realised how what she had intended to be playful restraint had turned out. Aurene, perched on the surprisingly sturdy roof of the stable, looked down at the pair and rumbled in what seemed to be concern, or perhaps regret. Oleraco rolled slowly onto his side, spitting a luminescent liquid the colour of cherry blossoms into the dust.

“I take it -” he paused to take a breath, “- that this isn’t what you were trying to achieve.”

“Definitely not! I’m so sorry - can you get up?” The asura crouched beside him, considering trying to get him to his feet, but knew before she even attempted it that she’d fail - not to mention

that if Gorrik or anyone else who happened to be watching would probably scold her for exerting herself. Fortunately, Aurene hopped back down to ground level and nudged her snout under the Commander’s arm. He responded by hooking it around the back of her spiny neck, and between the two of them they managed to get upright, Oleraco’s back leaning against the fence. 

He was smiling. 

“Don’t worry about it. Just - caught me off guard.”

“Commander, you’re bleeding."

He opened his eyes and looked immediately down at himself, running a hand down the front of his coat. Aurene hadn’t stopped trying to get Oleraco, who seemed perfectly content sitting where he was, to his feet - Taimi decided she trusted the dragon’s judgement enough to leave for a moment.

“I’m going to go find Gorrik.”

“What, is he a doctor now?”

“So that’s what you need?”

Oleraco’s face had the look of someone who knew they’d lost, and Taimi crossed her arms; the victor. When he didn’t offer her any more protest, Taimi trotted away in search of help.

* * *

“Spirits,” came Braham’s voice under his breath as Oleraco finished wrestling with the act of pulling his jerkin over his head. From where he and Taimi were stood, they could just see his back - covered as it was in a sheen of blood-like sap that most likely had come from the half-dozen nasty-looking lacerations striped across his thick outer bark, revealing the gently glowing flesh beneath.

“Come on. It’s not that bad.”

“Commander, stop,” the norn shot back. “This is messed up. What _happened?”_

“Sand lions.”

“Like _hell_ it was sand lions! I’ve never seen a sand lion with claws that big!” Braham protested, and Oleraco didn’t argue any more after that. Maybe he would have earlier, but the blood loss seemed to have placated him somewhat.

Gorrik was standing on the wooden table next to where Oleraco sat. He _wasn’t_ a doctor, but all the medics they had left were out with the scouts, where they were needed. Nobody had expected the Commander, of all people, to need their attention back at the refuge. When Taimi had returned to the stables, having told Gorrik to prepare whatever he could prepare, Braham had already found their patient and was midway through convincing the sylvari to let him pick him up. 

_“You’re not going to be any use, sitting out here,”_ Braham had said, and then Taimi might have mentioned Trahearne, which had made Oleraco just kind of…give up and let them do what they wanted, slumped and malleable like a miserable ragdoll. It may have been a low blow - but it was useful, when you knew someone this stubborn, to be aware of which of their buttons to press.

“Obviously he’s...cut up,” Gorrik began, tapping Oleraco on the shoulder with one finger, causing him to flinch slightly. Aurene, the only one currently able to see how his face twisted at the movement, bristled slightly and shot a glare at Gorrik, which he didn’t appear to notice. “Some cracked ribs for sure. Though the latter might be because of the dragon you set on him.”

“Are you trying to make me feel bad?”

“I’m not _trying_ to do anything.”

“Alright, stop that,” Oleraco interrupted. Aurene had gotten closer to the table now, and was reared up with a claw settled on his knee - and in return, he had one hand on the top of her head. She rarely spent so long inside the refuge, slipping out every couple of hours to deter any Branded that happened to stray too close to the entrance. Maybe she was worried - or maybe she felt guilty. “It’s not worth you fighting over.”

Taimi edged around the table to look at the Commander. His expression had returned to that thousand-yard-stare she’d seen when he’d been stood by the stables, and Aurene was staring right back at him. There were gouges in the bark on his chest, too - less deep than the ones on his back, but still deep enough to glow in the dull light of the alcove they’d settled in. 

“Commander,” Taimi began to ask for what felt like the tenth time. Aurene moved to the side as the asura went to stand in front of him. “What happened?”

Oleraco sighed, and Gorrik let himself down from the table. He hadn’t been able to find any actual medical supplies before Braham had carried his patient in - he took the opportunity to give the trio a moment of privacy while he went to go look again.

“It would seem that the Shining Blade,” he paused to suck in a breath through his teeth - whether it was angry or pained, Taimi couldn’t tell - “or whatever force is still successfully masquerading as them, still isn’t taking well to Mordrem meddling in human affairs.”

“You’re not Mordrem.”

“You don't have to keep saying that. You know I am." He rubbed his hands together restlessly. "They know it, too."

Taimi had already heard his spiel on this topic, most notably at Eir’s funeral, of all venues, so opted not to push the subject any further. “Is this about Joko? Or Balthazar?” Braham asked from behind them, edging closer to the table and perching on the other side of it, looking back

“Oh,” they heard Oleraco try to force a laugh, but he coughed instead, hunching over in pain for a few seconds. Aurene chirped and forced her face between his head and his thighs, and he straightened slightly in response. “They already made it _very_ clear how they felt about me killing Balthazar.”

“Are you kidding me? You _had_ to kill him!”

“I think they know that. I think they just wanted to do the deed themselves. Keep the faults of humans dealt with by human means.”

Braham rolled his eyes. “Then maybe one of them should have put themselves forward for your job instead of whining about it in the aftermath.”

“Maybe. But maybe they’re right. I don’t know how I would have felt about anyone else killing Mordremoth.”

At that point, Gorrik re-entered, arms haphazardly full of bandage rolls and salves. Sylvari had no need for stitches, thank the alchemy - their bodies regrew and fused back together over injuries, rarely even leaving a scar - and he was fairly certain they didn’t have to worry about infection, either. But it was better to be safe than sorry. “This is going to have to do until we get a medic back in here.”

“I’m sure I don’t need a medic -” Oleraco recoiled slightly as Gorrik attempted to pull him out of his slouch by moving his shoulder back, trying his best to stifle the yelp the movement dragged out of his throat. Aurene made another displeased noise, hopping onto a shelf in the rock wall beside the table and eyeing Gorrik cautiously. “They have more important things to do.”

“We need you on your feet when we manage to locate Kralkatorrik,” Taimi reminded him. “Aurene needs you. We just want to make sure you’re back in fighting condition as quickly as possible.”

Oleraco, again, found himself unable to protest. The ache in his ribs, though it had subdued with time, brought itself to a peak every time he moved too quickly, and when Gorrik prompted “arms up,” in order to secure a bandage around his torso, he obeyed and hissed in pain. The asura worked anyway, tying the strip of cloth as tightly as he could without evoking any more sounds of displeasure. 

“Right now you just need to...stay put.” There was something resembling pleading in Taimi’s voice. 

Braham laughed. “You’re gonna need to tie him down. He’s never gotten the message before; he’s not gonna get it now.” Oleraco tried to twist around to scowl at the norn and facetiously chastise him for insubordination, but he didn’t get very far. “Case in point.”

“I’ll take a break,” Oleraco began to promise. 

“More than a break. A vacation.” Taimi didn’t seem eager to change her tune when the Commander shot her an incredulous look. He _knew_ it was what he needed, but he also _knew_ there was an Elder Dragon currently devouring every remaining fragment of the Mists he could get his claws on, and that something needed to be done before he got too powerful, too satiated with magic, to kill. 

“You know I can’t agree to that.”

“Do I?”

Seemingly not. Gorrik secured the bandage with a small metal hook, and stepped away. “Look at that. A masterpiece. Think you can go a week without tearing it off, Commander?”

“Wouldn’t want to bleed on my armour.”

“Too late for that,” Gorrik observed, kicking at the jerkin - on the drapes that made up the tail of its coat, where it once was a vibrant, saffron yellow, it was streaked with pink, now dulled and mostly dry but still shedding a slight gleam. Sylvari blood didn’t glow indefinitely, though the effect did tend to linger for a while.

Oleraco clicked his tongue, pulling the garment away from him before Gorrik had the chance to question his decisions any further. “I have a spare.”

“But you won’t be needing it for a while,” Taimi said, slow and deliberate, as though daring him to argue. When Oleraco caught her eye he felt like a child being scolded, and he wilted in submission. He bundled the tunic up and, holding it under one arm, dropped as gently as he could onto his feet. 

“Where’ve you been sleeping?” Braham asked, offering the crook of his elbow, a gesture Oleraco pretended not to notice. He could walk just fine, and proved it by attempting to outpace the norn back to the refuge’s atrium - he barely made it past the table before he felt Braham’s hand close on his shoulder. 

“ _Hey_ ,” he barked in surprise. 

“We’re walking together. Where have you been sleeping?” 

Taimi was now, literally, at their heels, and Oleraco turned his focus purposefully to her. “Braham’s got this. Go and sit down.” Which, of course, she ignored. She already seemed annoyed at him - well, maybe not annoyed, maybe just disappointed that he hadn’t told her. Nagging her about her condition didn’t seem the best way to cheer her up, and Oleraco realised that only in response to the stony silence he received. 

Braham’s grip tightened just slightly - not enough to hurt, but certainly enough for Oleraco to catch his drift. 

“I put together a desk in storage. It’s...it’s not much, but there’s a chair, so-”

“ _Sleeping_ being the operative word,” Taimi scoffed. “I don’t think he’s been doing much of _that.”_ Oleraco looked down at her, frowning - concerned he’d actually hurt her feelings somewhere - but when she saw him she gave him a smile, though not an overly convincing one. “Look, Commander. Your health is important to us - and your ability to fight is important to the mission. I don’t want to have to bully you into taking a backseat for a while, but you’re making it hard not to.”

Braham was leading them in a direction Oleraco didn’t recognise as being _towards storage,_ so he figured there was a change of plan. He just followed, arms crossed across his bandage-covered torso. “Do we have any spare...non armour...clothes hanging around? People are staring.” People were definitely staring - the occasional agent or magister they passed letting their gaze linger on their Commander for slightly longer than he was comfortable with, then exchanging whispers that he had no chance of hearing when he looked their way. He couldn’t know what they were thinking, and the last thing he wanted was for rumours to be spread. 

There were already plenty among their ranks who questioned his ability to lead. 

“We’ll find some right after we secure you a bed.” There weren’t many in the refuge - a couple of cramped, scattered dorms for recruits and refugees, and a couple more private rooms built with higher-ranking soldiers and casualties in mind - of which, conveniently, Oleraco was both. Braham steered them into a doorless room cut off by a sandstone wall, barely tall enough to conceal Oleraco at full height and only coming up to Braham’s shoulder. 

Inside, it was the same as the rest of the refuge - floor cut from the same rock, no lighting, and a small bed clothed with woven blankets and a pillow in the form of a rolled-up sheet. Oleraco, who had been sleeping at his desk for at least a week, couldn’t complain.

“You going to tell us the rest of the story?” Braham asked as Oleraco took a seat on the bed, back flush against the wall behind the “pillow”. When he looked up, his expression was almost...sad, though it was hard to read in the low lighting.

“I suppose I could.”

Finally taking the opportunity to sit down on the bed, Taimi tossed him a thin, loose linen shirt - presumably belonging to one of the corsairs, from the style of it - and Oleraco began the process of pulling it over his head as Taimi prompted him to continue. “So the Shining Blade-”

“I don’t know if it’s the real Shining Blade.”

“So _probably_ the Shining Blade is after you because you killed Balthazar.”

“And Joko. Not particularly pleased about Zhaitan, either.”

“Wait, _Zhaitan_?” Braham said incredulously, leaning in with his hands on his thighs. 

“As far as they’re concerned, Orr’s problems were human problems, to be solved by a human. They don’t care that it wasn’t _me_ who killed Zhaitan, just that it was another sylvari Commander and a sylvari Marshal and now that _they’re_ both dead I’ve taken their place.” Oleraco pressed down the front of the shirt with a sigh. “They just didn’t have time to enact their wrath upon Kegan or Trahearne.”

It was clear the way Oleraco choked on that last name, despite how he tried to disguise it. It had been three years, and, well...none of them had really had a break in which to mourn, had they? Oleraco barely had time to _sleep_. Taimi tried to search his face, attempted to wordlessly tell him it was okay, but he looked away before she got the chance, and he was laughing, quietly, shaking his head as if he was trying to convince them nothing was wrong.

“What are they trying to achieve?”

“They want...the disbandment of the Pact. I tried to tell them I have no power within it anymore, and then they decided they wanted the end of Dragon’s Watch, too.” He gave a pause, just long enough for his audience to take in that information. “I don’t know if they’re going to go after Logan. Maybe we should tell him. I think we should probably tell him -”

He was cut short as, having tried to stand up, Braham pushed him back with a palm applied effectively to his forehead. Oleraco grunted and fell back against the wall, with only his dignity having received a blow. 

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll tell the Marshal.”

“I don’t want to scare anyone. But if he’s in danger, then we...need to say something.”

“Loud and clear, Commander, we’ll do it. There’s not anywhere you can be that’s more useful than you staying here and _resting._ ”

“I know, I know, I get it,” Oleraco hissed through his teeth, settling back into a more natural sitting position, feeling the roaring ache in his ribs subside as he got comfortable. “I get it.”

Taimi was fidgeting. “So what, they just want you to...hand over Dragon’s Watch?”

It took a while for the answer to that to come. Oleraco coughed, tangling his fingers with one of the tassels on the bed’s blankets. “I don’t...think that’s what they expected from me. Maybe they did at first, but not anymore.”

“...What do you mean, ‘at first,’ Commander?”

Oleraco just looked at Braham as if to say, ‘ _got nothing for you’._

“You said they spoke to you after you killed Balthazar,” Taimi said, unravelling the whole thing in her head. “And then now, about Joko...how long has this been going on?”

It was one of those questions he didn’t _want_ to have to address, didn’t _want_ to be responsible for, but knew needed to be answered - and maybe he was the only one who had the ability to do it. 

He’d faced a lot of questions like that since he’d taken up this job. 

“Let me just preface,” Oleraco began, presenting each syllable with the enunciation of someone choosing their words very carefully, “with the fact that this is the first time they’ve ever gotten _physical._ ”

“How long?” Taimi prompted, again. 

“Ever since…” His face was in his hands at this point, voice muffled by the barrier. Taimi wrestled with putting a hand on his shoulder, or knee, just having contact in some way - the way Blish used to do, in his awkward way, just to let her know he wasn’t mad at her. She eventually decided to keep her hands to herself. “Ever since we won the case in Kryta.”

Oleraco didn’t look up to gauge his friends’ reactions, but he knew they weren’t talking anymore. He drew his knees up to his chest, not pausing when it hurt for fear of being chastised for doing something stupid. Taimi finally changed her mind and leaned forward, placing one hand on his leg - he flinched, almost imperceptibly, at the touch coming out of nowhere, but still kept his face covered.

“Commander, it’s oka-”

“I thought I could handle it.”

Another pause. Taimi and Braham exchanged an uncertain look. It had been a while since they’d seen the Commander display any sort of negative emotion besides mild irritation, especially about anything other than Trahearne. They had guessed that maybe, sometimes, he experienced some self-doubt - as anyone thrust into such an important position without warning was wont to do - and was just good at keeping it hidden for the sake of bolstering his allies.

Well, he wasn’t bolstering anyone anymore.

“You know? I thought I could keep them happy. I can’t fight the fucking Shining Blade, and when I can’t fight someone I can usually talk them down.”

“Hey.” Oleraco’s shoulders were trembling, and Braham took a step forward, tried to ease him out of his fetal position. Taimi waved her hand at him, telling him to stop, and he did.

“But it didn’t work. They weren’t there to talk. They were there to ask something of me, and it was something I couldn’t give them.” A couple of deep, shaky breaths, and he’d composed himself enough to sit up, pulling his hands away from his face. “And they didn’t like that.”

“It’s not your fault. They’re _extorting_ you, Commander.” 

The Commander opened his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to blame himself some more, but it didn’t happen. He coughed a little, then coughed again, until he was hunched over and hacking into the crook of his elbow. Taimi saw blood again, soaking into his sleeve, and Braham, not knowing what to do, reached forward and rubbed his back with a hand that almost covered it, careful not to press too hard against the bandages. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he reassured him. 

After maybe a minute, the coughing fit subsided. Oleraco wiped the corner of his mouth on his already-bloody sleeve, and leaned back into the corner behind the bed, apparently spent. “We should probably go,” Taimi said, leaning away to get off the bed.

“One more thing.” Braham stooped down, his face level with Oleraco’s, whose eyes fluttered open as he felt the norn’s breath. “Got any names? Anyone you recognised?” His eyes closed again. Gently, Braham tapped the side of his face with the tips of his fingers to snap him back into focus. “Commander.”

“Damon,” Oleraco rasped, eyes still closed. “From the Kryta Inquiries. Thought he was dead. Apparently not dead _enough._ ”

“Nobody else?”

“Nobody else.”

Braham stood up straight, and Taimi hopped down, and they waited next to each other as Oleraco got himself lying down. “Stay here,” Taimi said, patting the side of the bed. “We’ll bring you anything you need. If we’re not here, someone else will. There’s no need for you to go exploring, got it?”

There was a shake in her voice. Braham looked down at her, but she paid no attention to him. They got no reply from the Commander, and both took that as compliance. Nothing else was said before they turned to leave, almost clearing the empty doorway of the “bedroom” before Oleraco spoke again.

“They’re going to kill me next time they see me.”

Taimi spun around just about as fast as she could, neither of them prompting him to continue, just waiting in silence. “They know I’m not going to give them what they want. They know they’re not going to be able to torture it out of me. They also know they can just kill me and take it out of my cold, dead hands. And I won’t be able to fight back, not if it’s any time soon.”

“Did they _tell_ you this?”

“They made sure it was the last thing I heard before they left me there. They want me scared, but they don’t want me scared enough to tell anyone.”

There was a lump in Taimi’s throat, and she swallowed to the best of her ability. “ _Would_ you have told us?” Nothing. “If we hadn’t forced it out of you, would you have told us about this?” Again, no immediate answer. She waited, watching - Oleraco looked almost as though he was asleep, but he was frowning; in thought. It wasn’t a difficult question, and Taimi realised he was probably wrestling with whether or not to lie to them. 

His chest rose as he took a deep breath. One hand closed around his throat as if he was trying to stop himself from speaking.

“No, I guess not.”

* * *

The next day, the commotion in Sun’s Refuge picked up. Oleraco suffered through a night of restless sleep, trying to hold himself down from tossing a turning too much; they didn’t have much in the way of pain relief out here in the middle of the desert. When it got too bright to keep his eyes closed without the light seeping in, he sat up, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Recruits were milling around outside - he could hear them, see them through the doorway, spot the occasional charr or norn head that was visible over the top of the wall. He was too busy to figure out what was going on to notice someone entering the room, standing politely just inside the entrance.

“Commander.”

Vigil. Vigil he _knew,_ at that.

“ _Felwen.”_ His voice was hoarse from sleep still, but it was easy to hear the relief in it. He stood to greet her, wobbling on his feet for a few seconds before enclosing her in a long-awaited - but somewhat achy - hug. She tolerated it for a good few seconds before pulling away.

“Now, I’ve been instructed not to let you leave that bed.”

“So you’ve met Taimi.”

Felwen smiled, both hands on Oleraco’s shoulders as she guided him backwards towards the bed. She looked just as pleased as he must have - it had been almost two years since they last saw each other, and Oleraco hadn’t been sure she was still alive for a while. But now that she was here, he wasn’t sure how he ever doubted her. 

“I have. She’s a bright spark, that one.” She handed him a bottle, and he eagerly began to drink. “She told me everything.”

Oleraco swallowed his mouthful of water. “Everything?”

“Well, I assume so. She requested backup, because your life’s in danger. So we came. Jorund’s here, too.”

“Of course she did.” 

The crusader’s expression softened, starting to look almost...sad. Pensive, maybe. “You’ve really made a name for yourself, haven’t you?” She sat next to him, taking one of his hands and squeezing it, an action that snagged on something in his chest, though he turned his face away before she could notice a change in his expression. Felwen, the first living thing he ever saw. The first thing to ever show him kindness. The reason he survived Maguuma, and the reason he was still here today. 

Were it not for the blessing of Dragon’s Watch, the closest thing to family he had left.

“We’re moving.”

“Wait, what? To where?” Oleraco whipped himself back into to the conversation, the ridged bark of his brow furrowing. 

“Thunderhead Peaks. There’s a forge there, dwarven, but it’s run by Exalted now. And Zephyrites.” A wry smile. “I’m to believe Glint herself taught you how to make a weapon strong enough to kill a dragon?”

“You’re _looking_ at a weapon strong enough to kill a dragon.” Felwen elbowed him in the ribs just hard enough to hurt - which wasn’t very hard at all. He bent over in response, but he was laughing, only occasionally pausing to cough. His fellow sylvari just watched him, still smiling, until he stopped and ran a hand down his face. “I missed you.”

“You’ve done more for the world than you could have done running around Verdant Brink with us.” She leaned over, kissing the top of Oleraco’s head. “I missed you too, but I’m glad you left, dragon slayer.”

“It’s _god killer_ , actually.”

Felwen shook her head and opened the bag she’d brought with her, fishing out a familiar item - Oleraco’s “spare” armour, an old nightshade coat he’d worn when he’d been stalking Balthazar through the desert, with sand still clinging onto the ridges. A muted green, with a similarly dull pink at the tips of the thorns that covered the chest. The colour of the jungle in its quieter moments, when it was not angry orange and red or the eye-stinging blues of leylines and chak. 

He looked up at her as if he didn’t understand.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re not going to be doing any fighting. It’s for protection _only,_ just while we transport you there.” 

“Transport? Where’s the nearest gate?”

“No gates.” Oleraco took another long drink from the bottle and Felwen waited for him to finish. “There aren’t any close enough to make it worth it. Besides, and these are Taimi’s words - you’re not in any condition to be using an asura gate.”

He snorted. “That’s not a thing.”

“I wasn’t about to argue with her. Feel free to try for yourself.”

In an attempt to grab the bag to inspect the rest of its contents, Oleraco bent over fully, the presence of an old friend having made him momentarily forget about his broken ribs and gashes. The air in his lungs escaped him in a wheeze as the movement brought pain upon him with the approximate velocity of a charging dolyak. Felwen steadied him with her arm. 

“Slow down. I’ll get it.”

The bag was dropped onto the bed between them, and slowly Oleraco righted himself in order to look inside. And...there were his guns. He took one out, pointing it at the ceiling with his index finger tapping the guard. The matter converters inside the barrel hummed to life at his touch, warming up, ready to be used. “Not going to be doing any fighting?”

“Not if you can avoid it.” Felwen lifted the chest piece from Oleraco’s lap, uncrossing the thorns that locked together at the back as he laid the pistol down on the bed’s pillow and began to remove the corsair’s shirt to help her. “And we’re going to take every possible precaution to make sure you _do_ avoid it. Taimi will probably have my head if you so much as fire a single bullet.”

“Glad to see she’s taking her new job as supervisor seriously,” Oleraco joked as Felwen wrapped her arms around him to fit the coat’s breastplate. The stiff vines that made the armour shifted and tightened to better suit his size as they came into contact with his skin, as though it remembered its owner, and had been waiting to be used again.

“Now that there’s something that needs to be supervised, I am.” 

“How long were you waiting to make an entrance?”

“Not long.” Taimi was accompanied by Aurene, who seemed somewhat on edge - which, given what was at stake for her, was understandable. Having her champion around certainly seemed to calm her nerves, and as Oleraco came into view she visibly relaxed, perching atop the partition wall. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Absolutely not,” Felwen said bluntly, before Oleraco had a chance to answer. She recrossed the thorns on his armour, securing it into place, and moved her hands away. “All done.”

“Feels good. Feels right,” he said, stretching his shoulders as much as he could without igniting a fire in his chest or back. 

“If this is you trying to convince us you’re in fighting shape, it’s not going to work.” Taimi tossed him a small metal disc with a charged crystal embedded in a depression in the centre. “It’s a cloaking device. I know you’re perfectly capable of stealthing on your own, but...please use this instead for now, okay? I mean, if it comes to that. If something happens and your options are _fight_ or _cloak and run away_ , use the latter.”

Oleraco turned the object over a couple of times, pretending to scrutinise it. 

“Thanks for your cooperation, Commander. It only has enough charges in it for...maybe 3 uses, if you’re conservative with the stealth duration. Let’s just hope you won’t need to use it at all.”

“Yeah.”

Felwen’s hand was on his again, looking like she was searching him for something. Oleraco knew it was the fear that was bubbling somewhere beneath his surface - the fear of losing, the fear of dying, the fear of messing up. The fear for Aurene, and for Taimi, and for himself, and for the whole world outside of this cavern. The innocent people who never played with magic beyond their understanding, who just tried to live their lives without being displaced or enslaved or killed. He tried to smile at her, and he probably tried too hard, because Felwen’s expression did not change. She just squeezed his hand and leaned away.

“Aaaanyway,” Taimi interrupted, drawing their attention. “There are airships waiting for us in Vabbi, and we’ve got a dolyak caravan set up to get us there. You’re kinda a hot target right now, Commander, between Kralk, and the Shining Blade, and...the Mordant Crescent, probably...so we’re gonna hide you away in a supply van.”

“Great.” Taimi almost seemed to enjoy the disgruntled look Oleraco gave her. She gave him a shark-toothed grin before turning on her heel and leaving the room. Oleraco just found himself staring at the doorway for a while, not thinking of anything.


	2. Chapter 2

Thunderhead Peaks was not a place for sylvari, especially not those of the cold-sapped jungle variety. Oleraco wasn’t allowed to stray from the grotto anyway, despite his protests - usually along the lines of how yes, he did need sunlight in order to get his strength back - and spent most of his time huddled by the forge to avoid the worst of the icy drafts within the fortress, doing his best to advise Hilina, the Exalted forge master, on the creation of their Dragonsblood weapons, though he was sure she could do it without him. Aurene came and went, and Taimi kept him company as she worked. She wasn’t allowed out much either, on Gorrik’s orders, and Oleraco got the feeling she’d be a lot more annoyed about that if she was alone in her house arrest.

“We need a plan,” Oleraco broke the quiet of the forge one day, watching Aurene swoop from cave face to cave face from one of the windows. He could hear Taimi sigh.

“I get that, Commander.”

“We can’t _make_ a plan until you let me out of here. I need to assess the lay of the land.”

“We can wait a few more days.” She’d been using Blish’s device to try and track and predict Kralkatorrik’s movements all day, to see if they could lure him into something he couldn’t escaped, but she’d turned up nothing yet. 

“ _Days?_ Every hour Kralkatorrik gets stronger.”

Ghosts, stranded from their roots in the Mists, had been appearing periodically in the keep for a couple of days now. Confused, afraid, sometimes violent; nothing like Glint’s messengers who would briefly visit to deliver increasingly bleak news of their fight against the dragon. Every time one appeared, Oleraco just grew more tense. He understood, of course, where Taimi and the others were coming from: he wasn’t so petulant that he couldn’t admit he needed to be back in full fighting shape for the final battle against the dragon.

But every moment they waited, the more magic he consumed. And the more magic he consumed, the slimmer their chances got.

“If I’m out of action by the time we’re face to face with him, that doesn’t matter. I’m not the only person who can fight.”

“But you’re the only person we trust to lead.”

Oleraco bristled, as much as he tried not to. And he tried not to let Taimi hear the venom that entered his voice, but he didn’t do a very good job of that either. “Gods know _why.”_

Taimi just went back to her coordinates as though he’d said nothing at all. He tried to lean over to see her face, but his ribs were still too broken to allow it - his wounds had healed fairly quickly, as was one of the perks of being a sylvari, but it still hurt to breathe sometimes. All he saw was her shoulders shaking just slightly, and he stood from his perch on the windowsill.

“Taimi -”

“We’re scared too, Commander.”

“I know. I know that.”

Her hands fell from the interface in front of her, and her whole posture slumped, like she’d given up. “Do you?”

For a moment, Oleraco just looked at her as though he didn’t know what to do, as though he didn’t want to interact at all for fear of breaking her. There was a loud hiss from the direction of the forge as a new batch of weapons were plunged into the cooling waters beneath, and Oleraco felt the warmth of the rising steam from where he stood. 

Taimi shook her head. “I know you care. I know you just want to do your best. You didn’t ask for any of this and you’ve exceeded everyone’s expectations so far.”

“Including yours?”

She didn’t answer that. “But just this once, you need to stand back.”

“Fine.”

The slump left Taimi, then. She turned around and her eyes were wet, but she wasn’t quite crying yet. Now she was looking at him he felt trapped again, like he couldn’t lie or hide. He struggled, with her, as closed off as he tried to be, as much as he knew the intricacies and faults in his psyche didn’t matter when they had a world to save. “Do you promise? No more complaining, no more asking when you can do something to help?”

Oleraco hesitated, and Taimi scowled. 

“I won’t complain anymore.”

“Commander.”

He gently patted her back, walking past her. Over the hum in her forge, he heard her try to protest again, a small rising sound of disagreement in her throat, but he cut in first. “When’s the last time you ate? I’m going to get something from the barracks.” That was enough. When Oleraco looked over his shoulder at her, she just nodded. They were all tired and hungry and scared and nobody wanted to expend energy on arguing about anything. 

In the colder air of the grotto, Oleraco touched a Priory scholar’s arm and asked them to take Taimi a ration, to which they immediately agreed. He paused, about to continue on his way, then got their attention again and asked them to tell her he was sorry, too.

“Should I tell her why?”

Oleraco whistled through his thumb and forefinger, hearing the distant flapping of Exalted wings as his griffon responded to the high-pitched sound. There was a glimpse of the gold of her armour as she passed a gap in the rock face. Oleraco turned to the scholar, doing his best to look stern. “She’ll know.”

There was an updraft of wind as the glowing griffon landed behind him.

“I know, girl,” he said under his breath as the griffon playfully nipped at his ear with her beak. She was restless, having been confined to two seperate caverns for over a week now. His raptor was well-adjusted to life in a stable, but Sage needed to stretch her wings every now and then. He hopped carefully into her golden saddle, finding the position that caused him the least pain, before gently digging a heel into the shifting ectoplasm of her side.

Sage had, apparently, been staking out the grotto, because she headed immediately towards an exit that Oleraco didn’t even know existed. She bounded, flightless, through cobweb-filled hallways, and Oleraco found comfort in the rhythm of her gait, wrapping her reins around his knuckles for added security. 

Only a couple of their allies had spotted them before griffon and rider burst out of the entrance, Sage’s broad wings immediately catching the frigid air - Oleraco felt the chill bite at his exposed bark like a flock of pocket raptors chipping away at their bounty, painful as flying head-on into a sandstorm. But he said nothing, just let his griffon fly, let the icy sunlight cradle him as they took to the air. 

Below, corsairs argued with Zephyrites; Dredge fought to reclaim their land from the encroaching Branded; and Branded encroached all the same. Crystals entombed tanks and snagged holes in the canvas of airships. Oleraco leaned into Sage’s neck and looked down at the desecration below him, the obstruction of peace, rendered into physical form by the jagged purple walls that tore the landscape asunder.

He pulled on the reins to guide Sage towards ground level as they left the vicinity of the battle and found themselves over a lake dotted with slow-moving floes, followed in the distance by empty, seemingly untouched snowfields. They didn’t touch the water, but got low enough for Sage to playfully drag the tip of one wing along the surface, kicking up a spray of water that felt like fire when it touched Oleraco’s skin; but he didn’t tell her to stop. As they hit land once more, she pulled back up, resigning them once more to the empty sky.

“ _Commander_ ,” buzzed a voice from the small device attached to Oleraco’s pauldrons. He reached one arm across his chest to activate the communications, speaking into it.

“Canach. What’s going on?”

“ _I could ask you the same thing,_ ” snarked the sylvari on the other end. Oleraco had been caught out, but it was Canach. He didn’t feel like he was in trouble - he mostly felt like he was being dragged into something he’d regret, as he usually did when Canach reached out to him. “ _You’ve gone MIA. I was asked to contact you._ ”

“I wanted some fresh air.”

“I _’m sure._ ” Voices came from the radio that weren’t Canach’s, too distant and muffled to make out. Canach said something to dismiss them, and the other side grew quiet once again. “ _But now that you’re up and about, I have some suggestions to make_.”

“Let me guess.” Oleraco paused a moment to hold on tight to Sage’s saddle as she barely dodged a large Branded shard, extending horizontally from a low mountain peak. “Bombs?”

“ _Very astute. I want you to speak to the Dredge about their tanks._ ”

Oleraco paused as he steered Sage towards a ledge on the sheer mountain they’d been flanking, remaining in the saddle so he could focus on the conversation. “I’m not supposed to be out here, Canach. If anyone sees me trying to negotiate with the Dredge I’m back on house arrest for _gods_ know how long. Don’t you have anyone you can send?”

“ _Are you really letting them boss you around?”_

Sage shuffled, and Oleraco just huffed into the receiver. 

“ _You are, aren’t you? Have you forgotten who is in charge of this circus?”_

“No,” Oleraco said, a little too quickly. He heard Canach make an amused noise on the other end. “They were right. I needed a break, and I didn’t want to make anyone feel like I don’t listen to them. Besides, I’ve been helping with the Dragonsblood weapons -”

“ _No, you haven’t.”_

Oleraco’s grip on the radio tightened, and he had half a mind to launch into berating Canach, but he took a deep breath instead, letting it out slowly and watching the near-opaque cloud of mist expand in front of his face. “Okay, I haven’t. But it doesn’t matter. I’m out here now.”

“ _So you’ll talk to the Dredge?”_

“No,” Oleraco tried to re-enforce, determined not to let Canach win, but the other sylvari was already wrapping up the conversation on his own terms, speaking over the Commander’s refusal.

“ _Excellent, I will make preparations to receive the tanks. You’re a_ saint _, Commander.”_

Oleraco saw no point in responding further, having had enough experience with Canach to know he’d won. There was a scuffling on the other end, probably the sound of Canach placing his communication device on his desk, signalling that anything Oleraco said from now on would fall on deaf ears. He dug his heels into Sage’s side again, and she took off in two beats of her powerful wings, resuming her meandering route through the mountain peaks. 

Sage turned before they could circle around to the keep, sloping downhill back towards the ice floe, Oleraco having a half-hearted intention of offering his limited services to the Dredge in return for their assistance in the fight against the dragon. The sun had since sunken below the mountain ridge, rendering the stark white environment somewhat less blinding, swaddled in the soft orange light of the sunset. 

Once again they passed the frozen shore, Oleraco beginning to grumble about Canach’s demands. He’d gotten into the swing of not having much responsibility, and as stir crazy as his time off had rendered him, the tasks ahead were daunting. 

His musing was cut abruptly short as a sharp crack split the air. 

Sage screeched and stuttered in her movement as a bullet passed through her wing, the swirling mist that constituted her body immediately fusing back over the hole. She descended despite this, banking hard - hard enough to throw Oleraco out of the saddle. He held fast onto the reins for a few seconds before noticing the snowy ground was a maximum of ten metres beneath them. 

He let go and Sage pulled away, keening and finding cover. With a grunt, Oleraco hit ground, creating a chasm in what was probably a foot of freshly fallen snow, remaining still in the icy confines of his hiding place.

But he heard footsteps approach all the same, the crisp sound of someone wading through the powder towards him. Just one set of feet - but Oleraco was unarmed, caught unawares, and without even his griffon to defend him. He was on his side, with his back to the attacker, too vulnerable and afraid to turn towards whoever it was.

The light was momentarily blotted out by someone leaning over his hole in the snow. Oleraco heard a hand brush some powder away, reaching down, felt it assume a grip on the armour that covered the nape of his neck. Just one hand, one firm grip, pulling him upwards without much concern or effort and shoving him backwards again. His back collided with the solid ground of a bank, where the snow was much shallower, and all he could do was look up.

“We keep running into each other, Commander.”

Jean Damon. Smiling down at him like Oleraco was a gift he’d just opened. 

“Well, I’m not going to lie. I’ve been looking for you. Thought I’d lost you when you were in Jahai - that base of yours is well hidden, isn’t it? But then your big conspicuous caravan marched you out of there and I followed you. All the way here.” He’d drawn a line in the snow, ending at the side of Oleraco’s face, as if to demonstrate the route he’d stalked. “Waited days for you to leave that fortress. All worth it now.”

“What do you _want?”_

“You know what I want.”

Oleraco felt a hatred burning inside him, hot enough to melt all the ice in the Deldrimor Front. “Dragon’s Watch is not an organisation you can inherit from me. It’s a _guild.”_

“If it were a guild,” Damon smiled, brandishing his gun now, “you wouldn’t be above the law. But nobody can touch you.”

There wasn’t a smart answer for that one. Oleraco pressed his lips into a thin, irritated line, feeling the cold of the snow bite back at the anger burning inside of him, quelling it somewhat. He couldn’t think his way out of this. Damon had every upper hand he possibly could, and all Oleraco could do was attempt to convince him this wasn’t worth it. 

“They’ll disband the moment they find out what you’ve done.”

Damon laughed. “Then I’ll lie.”

“They know what you did last time. They know who you are.”

At that, Damon looked legitimately surprised. His attention was pulled away from the gun he’d been ineptly spinning on one finger, staring almost incredulously at his captor. “I really didn’t think you’d say anything. I thought your pride was fragile and all-encompassing.”

“What, you were banking on a probability?”

“I wouldn’t say _banking_. Your weakness isn’t my loss, Commander.”

Oleraco tried to laugh but he could feel the chill of the ground seeping into his chest. He could mock all he wanted but he still knew he was stuck. If he kept on Damon’s good side, he was just as dead as if he’d angered him. 

“Then what’s plan B?” he croaked. 

“I take Dragon’s Watch and the Pact by force.”

“You’re just one person.”

“So are you,” Damon shot back, but his voice immediately softened. “And look at the empire you’ve built. Think about how lost they’re all going to be once that _one person_ is dead. I stride in, just on time, and I stitch them back together, and then I’m the hero.”

“They’re not going to just accept that.”

Damon, evidently, was growing tired of his retorts. He straightened to his full height, casting his shadow over Oleraco, clothing him in darkness. There was a metallic knocking sound as he cocked the gun. “I’m not here to listen to you underestimate me.” He kicked some snow away from his feet, planting them firmly, strengthening his stance. “You seem to think I haven’t thought this through.”

“I don’t know. That’s just the impression you’re giving me.”

And then there was another crack. Louder, this time, enough to feel like it was shaking the ground beneath them, enough to make Oleraco’s ears ring loud enough that it felt like the world was ending. When the gunshot sounded, his whole body had jolted, as though electricity had been coursing through him. 

The feeling left. The ringing subsided. Oleraco quickly realised it was not electricity that had shot through him. He felt it, like a dull punch at first, in his left thigh, felt the sap - which was not particularly warm, certainly not the temperature of human blood, but felt like a hot spring next to the snow surrounding him - pool beneath it. Then the dullness ebbed away, and it was just pain. 

Damon was completely still above him, watching the Commander’s agonised expression like a hawk. Oleraco tried to roll onto his side, tried to bunch himself up, make himself as small as possible to conserve heat and in a vain effort to control the pain in his torn flesh and shattered bone and his brain couldn’t think of anything else, just _blood_ and _pain_ and _I’m going to die -_

But one of Damon’s feet was on his shoulder, kicking him into his previous position, leaning his weight onto it to keep him down. 

“There.” His voice was steady, sickeningly so. Had Oleraco eaten today he would have thrown up from the combination of pain and fear and _disgust_ by now. “Not going to mouth off to me anymore, are you?”

“Fuck you.”

A desperate swipe, like the head of a dismembered snake trying to bite its killer’s hand. Damon smiled again. 

“You’re a soldier, I’ll give you that. In another life, I’m sure I would have loved to fight by your side.” Oleraco felt his stomach twist with nausea again and held onto that feeling, trying to stop reliving the sensation of the bullet ripping through his leg. Damon stepped away again, and Oleraco saw sunlight as the shadow moved. He winced and closed his eyes to it. 

He couldn’t speak anymore, both because he had nothing left to say, and because every time he opened his mouth all the wind was immediately knocked from his lungs. This seemed to displease Damon, whose amicable expression gradually disappeared. He bent down and scooped up a handful of snow, tinged at the edges with sap. 

“Perhaps it’s for the best that I replace you, if I could knock you down so easily,” he mused, letting the snow melt in his open palm. The gun was back out. Damon shook the remaining snow and ice from his hand, standing over Oleraco now, his feet either side of his legs. 

It was all Oleraco could do to keep his eyes open, to keep his murderer in his sights. He was cold and dizzy and growing colder and dizzier by the second. He found the dark depths of the barrel staring down at him, level with his eyes. 

“Forgive my cockiness.” _Click._ “I’d shoot you in the head, but it’d be such a _waste._ ” A shuffle as Damon steadied himself. The gun moved down. “It’s not like anyone’s going to find you out here in time. If you don’t bleed to death, you’ll freeze. What are you going to do, _walk_ home? Besides, call me sick...but I’d love to see the look on your face as you finally realise you’ve lost.”

Oleraco could just make a rumbling sound, thick with contempt, any words still escaping him.

“I’m really sorry about this, Commander.” 

And Damon delivered a bullet directly into his chest. 

Everything was blurry after that; as though things were moving faster than Oleraco could see. He was colder and dizzier now, with a new source of pain but more chill to numb him. Damon whistled, sounding like he was a mile away, and Oleraco saw a streak of thorny brown as his raptor scooped him up and together, they fled into the blanketing white of the snowfield. 

And there was nothing but silence. But the cold of the ground below Oleraco and the cold of the air above, the distant swirling as the snowfall picked up again. The sap continued to spread, slowly melting the snow that surrounded him, leaving him much quicker than he would have liked it to. He used the last of his strength to reach up one arm, distantly noticing that he could barely feel it by now, a shaking, clumsy hand knocking against the button on his communicator’s receiver. He couldn’t say anything at first, but the person on the other side noticed the moment of static from the attempt.

“ _Commander?”_ came Taimi’s voice. She sounded annoyed, for reasons Oleraco was struggling to remember. “ _Are you done hiding from us?”_

“Have you got -“ He forced his voice to come out, every syllable feeling like every single one of his ribs were breaking all over again. “ - my location?”

There was a beat of silence as Taimi adapted to the new turn the call had taken, then a flurry of noise as she jumped up and started towards the grotto. Oleraco could hear the haphazard footfalls, her breath picking up. “ _Yes, I’ve got it. Are you okay? What happened?”_

“I - I’m -”

“ _Change of plan, don’t talk.”_

“- sorry.”

There was no more conversation as Taimi tried desperately to find a familiar face on the other end. Oleraco just focused on keeping the button depressed, listening to the sound on the other end, trying to keep his eyes open and stay awake. He knew they already had his location, but he was afraid of whatever was waiting for him on the other side of sleep.

“ _Braham!”_ A quickening in the footfalls, then no more; a rumbling response that Oleraco couldn’t make out. “ _Rytlock? Okay, time sensitive, but I’m glad you’re here._ _Commander’s downed. You need to get to him ASAP. Take this.”_ Taimi, in this pause, passed them whatever device housed his coordinates. _“I’ll keep hold of the radio, you two just get there as quickly as possible.”_

Another low, wordless voice, and then they were gone. “ _Thank you!_ ” Taimi called after them as they left. Oleraco held onto her voice like it was a cliff edge.

“ _Alright, Commander. You don’t need to talk. I’m gonna stay on the line and I’ll just need you to give me some sort of sign you’re still with me, that’s all. Got it?”_ Oleraco offered her a noise that was as close to the word ‘yeah’ as he could manage. “ _Good. Good. Just stay where you are and keep breathing.”_

The ‘no talking’ rule fell by the wayside as Taimi got back to the forge. Her voice was hesitant, as though she was conscious of her hypocrisy. 

“ _What happened?”_

“Damon,” Oleraco responded with relative ease, though he did, faintly, notice how his voice was growing increasingly wet. He felt sap in the back of his throat. He felt it in his lungs with every breath. Like he was back in the cold, suffocating confines of the Dream that was never supposed to be his.

 _“I could have guessed. It was that or you’d fallen off the griffon._ _”_ Taimi was doing her best to keep the tremor out of her voice. Oleraco could tell, even as he was beginning to feel like he was sinking into an ocean with water as thick as syrup. _“They’re about halfway.”_

“He had a gun.”

There was a spike in the background static from the other side, almost as though Taimi’s mounting fear was being represented in an audible form. _“I see .”_ She was quiet for a little too long, musing, watching Braham and Rytlock’s location close in on Oleraco’s point on the projected map. A couple minutes longer. _“You’re not gonna be able to fight Kralkatorrik, are you.”_

“Caithe,” was all he could offer as a solution. She wasn’t Aurene’s champion, but she did have a connection to her, now, that Oleraco couldn’t dream to experience himself. It had made him jealous at the time, in a weird way. 

_“It’s not the same. She doesn’t know Aurene like you do.”_ Taimi tried to flatten down the rising distress in her voice. Oleraco didn’t need any more adrenaline than he already had. _“... but in your absence, I guess she’s the best we’ve got.”_ Against an Elder Dragon. They were fighting an Elder Dragon and they had to go with ‘the best we’ve got’. Oleraco felt something in his chest twist like a knife, nothing to do with the hole in the front of his armour. 

He almost didn’t want to survive this, if he had to face a world where Kralkatorrik won. 

“Commander!” came a voice over the bluffs. Oleraco heard the snorting breaths of two raptors, two voices exchanging directions and ideas. He closed his eyes for what felt like half a second and when they were back open Braham was kneeling beside him, leaning over, trying to align Oleraco’s gaze onto his face. “We got you. We got you.”

“Get him on the back of the raptor?” Rytlock suggested. His voice was the steadiest Oleraco had heard in a while.

 _“What?”_ Taimi shot back through the device. _“No, why would you do that?”_

Rytlock rumbled and Braham tried his best to get his arms underneath the sylvari’s torso as gently as possible, lifting him from the icy ground. Oleraco, who hadn’t expected to be carried twice in one week, let alone by the same person, let alone a person he’d only _recently_ stopped hating, just laughed through the sap in his airways, feeling the sharp hooks of the icy chill still embedded in every inch of his bark. Braham straightened up.

“Spirits, he’s cold,” came the norn’s voice from above him, soft. “You’re a mess. You know that, right?”

 _“Time sensitive,”_ Taimi reminded him from Oleraco’s pauldron. 

“Right. Rytlock, get on your raptor. I’ll get on behind you. Mine’ll follow us back.”

“What, you think it can take all three of us?” asked Rytlock, one of the physically largest people Oleraco knew, to Braham, another of the physically largest people Oleraco knew. 

Braham just shrugged, trying not to jostle the man dying in his arms. “I think it’s going to have to.”

So Rytlock did as he was told, assuming his driving position, as far forward in the saddle as he could manage. Braham managed to get on behind him, and the raptor grunted in surprise at the extra weight, but managed to handle it well. Braham hooked his legs around the reptile’s hips, getting as good a hold as he could. 

“Good as it’ll get. Just try to keep it steady.”

Oleraco couldn’t see anything. The light was blotted out by Rytlock’s back, inches from his face. As the raptor began to move, he felt Braham’s hold on him tighten, trying to shield him from the rolling sway of the mount’s gait. He closed his eyes, felt his breathing slow, but saw no issue in it, until Braham rocked him back into alertness. 

“Hey, stay awake.” All Oleraco could do was groan. The cold was leaving him, slowly, at least on a surface level. Feeling was seeping back into his arms, but his bones felt as though they were made of ice. There was a warmth radiating from where he was pressed against Braham’s chest, where his arms supported his back. He looked up, seeing a familiar fluorescent pink smeared down the white fur of Braham’s lapel. “We got you,” he said again.

But it was hard, staying awake; doing as he was told. As the raptor climbed the slope into Symphony’s Haven, as they neared the grotto, Oleraco felt a heaviness seep into him, as though he was made of cloth that had been soaked in cement. He tried to say something to Braham, who was now more focused on how close they were to success, giving Rytlock hurried directions towards the entrance to the fortress. Nothing escaped his throat. 

The heaviness reached the centre of his chest, from where the most distant of pains still radiated. It reached the back of his neck. Oleraco closed his eyes again, and this time he didn’t open them again when Braham told him to.


	3. Chapter 3

When he next woke, his eyes were met with a harsh yellow glow. He could feel warmth, close and surprising, as though he’d forgotten how it felt to not be cold. The glow took a while to subside, and he didn’t see much before his thoughts returned to him. The forge? The warmth and colour of molten metal, but no movement, no background hum like there always was. And why would they put him here? To escape from the cold? 

He hurt. He hurt all over, like his body was just one big bruise. He felt sharpness in his lungs when he breathed, he felt his left leg like a dead weight. He couldn’t remember having a headache worse than this one. Even thinking about sitting up sent a spear of pain through him, so he lay still, waiting for the blinding light to subside.

Instead of looking, he felt. He was lying on something hard, and flat, and warm, like a slab of rock. He scratched at it with his fingers, and became fairly certain that it _was_ a slab of rock. And he listened: there was flowing water, like the waters that could be heard beneath the forge, but there were other sounds too. Birds, insects. 

There were no birds or insects inside the forge. 

He blinked a few times. The glow was lessening as his eyes got used to something other than darkness - he saw a blur of gold and blue and green. Thick panes of glistening stained glass, solid golden walls holding them up. No sky, just ceiling, but thick, creeping vines and leaves. He blinked again. 

Tarir. 

What the hell was he doing in Tarir?

“Child,” came the echoed voice of an Exalted. He tried to react, tried to twist to look at them. The movement ripped all the air from him and he fell still almost immediately. “Do not try to move. You’re safe here.”

“What? How -”

“Your friends brought you here. The forge was attacked by the Elder Dragon, Kralkatorrik. They didn’t want to give him a chance to hurt you.” Oleraco felt his heart sink. A feeling of acute bleakness made itself known to him, like he could still feel the snow freezing him from the outside in, despite the heat of the jungle. The Exalted came into view, golden armour lit by the energy of their body. Exalted were not known for their expressive faces, but Oleraco could hear pity in their voice.

“Did we...win?”

There wasn’t an answer to that question, but the Exalted’s lack of response spoke volumes.

“I need to go back. I need to see them.”

An armoured hand pressed down into Oleraco’s shoulder as he tried to get up again, far too strong for him to resist. Everything hurt. Everything hurt and all he had was this stranger who couldn’t even tell him that his friends weren’t dead. His breath hitched in his throat and it was all he could do to hold back a cough; and he was too focused on that to stifle the sob that escaped him instead.

“They don’t need you right now.”

“What kind of commander -”

“The odds were stacked against you.” 

“- lets his army fight a dragon while he’s _asleep?”_

“Child.”

“Couldn’t even…” He trailed off, making a conscious effort to steady his breathing. “Couldn’t even kill one dragon. Kegan killed _two._ He didn’t even have Aurene and he killed two dragons and I can’t…” Stopped again. Let his breath settle again. “What was Trahearne _thinking?”_

“ _Child.”_

Imagine being so blinded by fear and infatuation that you put Mordrem in charge of your army. 

Oleraco gave up. He let his eyes close, forced himself to focus intently on the feeling in his chest - the one caused by the bullet, not the tightening, not the rising need to cry. He forced himself to remember what he’d been fighting for this whole time, and just how spectacularly he’d failed, and how it was all over. How he’d never see his friends again.

“Your friends returned this morning. I was stationed here to inform them of when you awoke.” The heavy feeling lightened marginally, but Oleraco didn’t move. “Should I retrieve them for you?”

He turned his head to the side, so that the Exalted could no longer see his face. “Sure.”

Exalted did not make a noise as they moved, but Oleraco felt the absence of the guardian that had been behind him. He continued working on the pace of his breathing, calming himself, convincing himself that even if things weren’t fine right now, they were going to be fine in the end. The pain lost the priority it had taken in his senses, replaced by the overwhelming feelings of dread and fear and guilt. 

The sound outside picked up. Hurried footsteps - not quite running, more like the sound of a norn trying not to outpace an asura by too much. Urgent voices from the inner chamber’s empty doorway. Now that the Exalted was gone, he returned some effort into sitting up. The movement made him feel like he’d been holding his breath for five minutes, a fierce burning like someone was branding the inside of his chest with a hot poker. He could barely move his injured leg, but it was good enough. His arms still had some strength in them, sufficient to hold him up.

“What are you _doing?”_

It was Felwen. Felwen and Taimi and Braham, with Caithe hanging further behind, giving them space. Felwen was on him immediately, a hand behind his back, holding him up in a sitting position so he didn’t have a chance to fall back down. Oleraco’s head immediately slumped onto her shoulder as it quickly became apparent that he was losing the battle against the rising tide of emotion in his throat.

“You’re okay. You’re all okay.”

There were a few beats of silence, stiff and almost awkward as Oleraco choked on a few sobs into Felwen’s shoulder. He knew how pathetic he looked, but he lacked the willpower to hold it back. 

“Oleraco,” Caithe spoke from the back of the group. She’d never called him Commander. “It’s...bad news. The dragon is hurt, but he got away, and...and Aurene…”

Oleraco looked up, understanding what she was trying to say far too quickly, the fear resurfacing, his heart feeling like someone had it in their fist and was slowly squeezing - but he couldn’t give a response that felt right. He just stared at her with wide eyes, tensing in Felwen’s arms. Taimi just shuffled from foot to foot, and Felwen pressed her lips to the top of his head comfortingly. She smelled like home, but she smelled like a hard battle all the same, like blood and dust and rubble.

“...Then…” he rasped, looking around at the exhausted faces watching him. “Then it’s over.”

“Commander,” Taimi tried and failed to interrupt.

“We don’t have anything left to fight him with. I’m sure he’s back in the Mists, recovering quicker than we can possibly hit him.”

“There has to be _something.”_ The asura didn’t even sound like she believed what she was saying. 

“There isn’t. There can’t be. We couldn’t defeat him _with_ Aurene’s help, we can’t defeat him without it.” 

“You did your best. We did our best,” Felwen was whispering, just barely loud enough for him to hear. He tried his best to shrug her off, the attempt at comfort drawing his ire. 

“I didn’t do _anything._ I certainly did _not_ do my best.”

Felwen didn’t let him go, holding him as tightly as she could without hurting him. He felt the irritation leave him, felt the fatigue and defeat begin to take over, like a devastating flood extinguishing an equally devastating fire. She still had him, just as she’d had him from day one. He let his uninjured leg slide off the slab, using his arm to help lower his left leg to join it, leaning forward in Felwen’s embrace enough to give her the message.

“No. Stay down.”

“I’d like to try,” he responded, trying to slip as much authority as possible into his tone. It didn’t sound quite like he had imagined, but Felwen didn’t argue further. She looped one of his arms over her shoulders, standing up slowly enough to allow him to do the same. They managed a single step away from the slab before it hurt too much for Oleraco to try another, his face hidden in his own shoulder. 

The group watching them were silent, until Caithe spoke up again.

“We’re going to...hold a funeral. The Zephyrites suggested it. I think...I think it would be a nice thing to do, before we have to move on and figure out our next move. I think Aurene would want you to be there.”

Oleraco breathed hard through his teeth until the pain subsided, turning his head to face Caithe once more. There was pleading in her expression, a vulnerability he hadn’t seen in a long time. Wordless, he nodded, then paused, then nodded again. There was a gust of wind from the top of the chamber, the scrambling of claws as Sage dropped down from a ledge, having finally noticed her master was awake.

He pressed his free hand against the armour covering the top of her head when she got close enough, feeling a purr-like rumble spread up his arm as he did. 

“I’d want to be there too.”

There’d been a temporary gate set up between Tarir’s atrium and the fortress in Thunderhead Peaks. Braham had asked if Oleraco would like to be carried again - perhaps half-jokingly, though what humour the question carried was feeble - and Oleraco refused. All but he and Felwen went ahead. Oleraco thought briefly about what Taimi had said, all those days ago, about him being in no state to use an asura gate, and noticed how that was out of the window now that so much more was at stake. 

Felwen moved to his left side, so he’d have more stability with his good leg. She took his arm over the back of her shoulders and held it there as securely as she could, and they began towards the entrance to the inner chamber. He was wearing only his trousers and boots again, as well as the bandages around his torso, and the left leg had been torn off in order to access his injuries. 

“Take it slow,” she told him under her breath as he tried to get ahead of her, eager to regroup. “No rush.”

Oleraco thought about Kralkatorrik, devouring the Mists, preparing to end the world that they’d all fought so hard to protect. He thought about all that was on the line, and all the efforts that would be wasted if they failed. He thought about how there was, in fact, most definitely a rush, but he knew that voicing those concerns would do nothing but harm in this moment, so he kept quiet, focusing on alternating between leaning his whole weight onto Felwen’s deceptively sturdy frame, swinging his right leg forward, rinse and repeat. 

Maybe halfway towards the door, Oleraco remembered that Sage was diligently following them, her padding feet making little to no noise.

“Maybe I should…”

Felwen looked back at the griffon too. “Maybe.”

With her help, he steadied herself in the familiar warmth of Sage’s saddle, and she obediently began to walk ahead, as slowly as she could. When she took too enthusiastic of a step forward, and her back end bucked up a little high, she paused - as though she could sense the pain it caused him. Felwen watched Sage every step of the way.

“She’s a sensitive one.” One hand brushed against the concentrated energy of her side, and - to her surprise - finding it solid beneath her touch. 

They got to the atrium at their moderate pace, finding the humming portal still active. Felwen let Oleraco go through first, to be sure it could take the griffon’s size - which it could - and followed suit. Taimi and Braham were waiting at the other side when Oleraco emerged into the relative cold of the forge. 

“It’s a lot of stairs down, Commander. You sure you’ve got this?” Braham asked, eyeing the griffon, who chuffed amicably in his direction. 

“Yeah.” This was too important to pay much heed to the pain, to the fatigue swirling in the back of his head, to the fact that he was fairly sure his leg was bleeding again. If he passed out, well - Sage would catch him, and at least he would pass out having tried to say goodbye. 

And more so than most things he needed right now, he needed to say goodbye.

But first, “Taimi?” She’d begun to walk away, toward the enormous auditorium doors, but Oleraco addressing her was enough to stop her in her tracks. “Look. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry for anything, Commander.” She kept her back turned, the way she always did when she was trying to hide how upset she was with him.

“I do. I definitely do. If I had listened to you, I would have been able to fight by your side, and maybe things would have gone differently.” Sage turned her head to nibble as gently as she could at his fingers, preening behaviour she exhibited when she felt his tension rising. “I would have been there for Aurene, and maybe -”

“No, Commander.”

“- maybe she’d still be here.”

Braham’s hand was on his forearm, trying to distract him. It didn’t work. 

“You can’t tell me I’m wrong.”

“But you can’t blame yourself for this, either,” he said, quiet, as though he was trying not to let Taimi hear. “It’s not just you. You’re not the only factor of...of all of this, and you can’t make all the decisions, and you can’t be responsible for everything.” Oleraco watched a small group of recruits rush past the forge’s entrance. “You can’t carry everything.”

“I was her champion. _I_ was. Not you, not Logan, not anyone else contributing to this effort. Me. I was responsible for keeping her safe. She was our secret weapon, and I was supposed to be there, to make sure we had a chance of winning.”

“Commander.”

“What?”

Taimi looked back over her shoulder at him. She was clearly making an effort to control her expression, control her voice, to keep herself from cracking open and letting him see everything she felt. “At the end of the battle, when Kralkatorrik won, he...there was this blast, like an explosion of all the magic he’d absorbed. His own magic, and Zhaitan’s, and Mordremoth’s, and Balthazar’s...he Branded the whole auditorium. There’s no fighting that, and there wasn’t anything we could have done to prevent it.”

“But -”

“Not even you, Commander. Not even you could have done anything.”

Oleraco slumped in the saddle somewhat, unable to hold her gaze for too long, feeling almost...embarrassed. Everyone had been telling him he was important, that he was the key to victory. It was daunting, at first, that expectation. He’d figured it would be enough to just coast on that; figured it was easier to just believe what everyone said, instead of trying to fight it. Improvise, make things up as he went along. So far it had worked well enough for Balthazar and Joko.

But, well...Balthazar and Joko weren’t dragons.

“I’ve been stupid.”

“Well, yes,” piped up Felwen from beside him. She was smiling, as big a smile as she could muster - not very big at all. Every time Oleraco looked at her, he just heard the words _you’re okay_ in his head, over and over. The smile just made him feel like a jungle tendril was wrapping itself around his heart and squeezing. “That you have.” 

Not one person spoke up to disagree. 

“Wait,” came a new voice, instead, from the entrance to the grotto. Oleraco twisted to see who it was perhaps a little too quickly, but didn’t regret it. Pacing towards them was the domineering form of a norn, and it took more self-restraint than Oleraco was willing to admit to stop himself from attempting to jump off the back of the griffon and charge towards him in greeting. He was holding Oleraco’s town clothes and a coat that would probably be a few sizes too big. “You’re hardly dressed for a funeral, Commander.”

“Jorund,” Oleraco said, not even trying to hide how his voice broke halfway through. Despite everything, despite _himself,_ he was grinning. 

The norn just grunted in response, passing Felwen the garments. Sage lowered herself down into a prone position so that she could more easily access the griffon’s rider. “It’s been a while. Glad to see you’re still in one piece.” He paused with a gruff laugh, nodding pointedly towards the mounted sylvari. “Mostly.”

“Shut -” Oleraco was cut short as Felwen secured the sleeveless shirt a little too tightly, making him momentarily feel like he was being ripped apart. She stopped immediately when she saw his expression change, hands flying to his shoulders to steady him. “Shut up.” He expelled all the air from his lungs and sat up straight so Felwen could continue. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Nobody said anything after that, which allowed a thick sullenness to seep into the cracks in the conversation. Felwen finished, draping the coat over his shoulders. 

An acute feeling of defeat weighed heavy on all of their backs as, when prompted, Sage started slowly towards the open doors again, the rest of the procession following her. Caithe just nodded at Oleraco as he passed her, avoiding his eyes. He noticed, now, the lack of light in the crystalline flowers Aurene had studded into her hair and mantle.

She was really gone.

Sage let the wind catch her wings, gliding smoothly down the steps down to the auditorium instead of bounding down them on foot. The vast hall beneath the forge was...well, destroyed. Oleraco could barely make out the ground for a thick covering of Brand, like volcanic glass, like the still surface of a lake. Crystals ten times his size climbed towards the ceiling like trees. The whole room rang with the resonance of the Brand, a low, unnerving sound.

He stopped when he got to the bottom of the stairs, feeling like he didn’t want to go any further. The fear of what he was about to see was sapping his focus away from the pain in his chest, which, on some level, he was thankful for. Caithe aligned herself with Sage’s shoulders, reaching up to take her reigns from Oleraco’s hand to lead them forwards again, not wanting to go on alone.

“Hey,” Oleraco began, already not sure what he wanted to say next. Another apology for not being there; an apology for what she had lost; an apology for his selfishness. A lie to try and convince her things would get better. He saw the absence of the light that had lived in the crystalline flowers on her mantle; Aurene’s magic no longer giving them life. She gave him a look as though she knew what he was thinking, and he didn’t finish his sentence.

Caithe led them through the maze of shards as though she’d walked the route a thousand times, the only sound the maddening resonance and the clinking of boots and talons on crystal. Sage lowered her head and ruffled her wings, and Oleraco could feel that the atmosphere was getting to her - he leaned forward as much as he could and ran a hand down the back of her neck in an attempt to soothe her. If she settled at all, she was probably just doing it to make him feel better.

“Sorry, girl.” He felt like he’d been saying that a lot lately. There was a sound from the griffon’s throat, like a chirp she gave up on voicing. “Things will be back to normal soon.” To his right, Caithe made a movement that he didn’t quite catch. When he looked at her, her face was turned away from him, but he knew what she’d reacted to. 

Nothing was going to be normal ever again.

The few minutes that they spent meandering through the auditorium felt like an hour. Oleraco wasn’t used to taking such a slow pace, and the dread just made it worse. They turned a corner, and he could see further than before - he could see to the other side of the cavernous space, could see how the crystals clustered just as thickly on every square foot of the room. He could see five Zephyrites sitting on the ground, just as wordless as his group. 

And in the centre of the clearing, there she was.

Aurene, frozen in the position in which she’d died, suspended in the air by half a dozen sharp, narrow crystals that had speared her body, wings extended. Talons clawing at an enemy that was long gone, mouth open in defiance for their loss. Oleraco panicked when he saw her; considered yanking the reigns from Caithe’s hand and running away, flying out into the mountains and finding somewhere to quietly freeze to death as he waited for the end of the world to come. 

Caithe apparently noticed how he’d tensed up, and placed a hand on his leg, then together, they took a few steps forward to allow the rest of the procession to filter in behind them, standing around the edge of the circular room the crystals had created. Oleraco, Sage and Caithe still stood in the centre. Felwen said something to the Zephyrites, and they began to sing - something Oleraco assumed was just part of the funeral proceedings. 

“We need…” Oleraco couldn’t take his eyes from the dragon’s grim form. “I need to get rid of those crystals, at least. We can’t let her stay there like that.”

“We can do that,” Caithe said, still touching his leg. She’d never been very into physical contact, and Oleraco appreciated the fact that she was trying. 

Ignoring her, he clicked his tongue and Sage lowered herself back down so he could dismount without jumping - Caithe, unwilling to argue with him on this, held onto his forearms and helped him down. Beside them now, Felwen offered her side for him to lean on again, and Oleraco could only shake his head. 

He threw one arm over Sage’s saddle, and together they approached Aurene. Despite her absence, he could still feel the frequency of the crystals, and could still feel the power she gave him to destroy them. Taking a moment to steady his breathing, he stopped leaning on Sage as much as he could, hearing nobody protest behind him. He raised a hand; pressed it against the crystal; felt the vibration run through his bones. 

Felt the scion’s spectral wings extend from his back, lifting him maybe a foot off the ground - and the crystal shattered into a thousand shards at his touch. 

“No, no.” Felwen was at his side again. “You don’t have to do that. Please don’t do that.” Oleraco had fallen onto his knees, fighting against the way the pain was making him want to pass out, forcing himself to look at Aurene and nothing else. She wrapped her arm around him, tried to get him to sit in a more comfortable position - he remained rigid against her suggestion, staring into the dragon’s glassed-over eyes. 

“Do you feel that?” he heard Caithe ask, before he got the chance to ask her the same thing. There was a hole in the ringing, replaced by a surge of energy in the air that he could almost taste on his tongue, like the air before a lightning strike. A pure energy, a bright energy - not dark and stormy like the energy of the Brand.

It felt like Aurene.

“Help me up,” he coughed.

“Absolutely not.” Felwen’s hands were on his shoulders as if she was trying to hold him down. She stepped to the side and blocked Aurene’s face from his view, forcing him to look at her. And he did, tried to somehow communicate to her that he wasn’t doing this in the name of rebellion. He was wilted in his position, shoulders slumped, eyes pleading. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Let him up.”

Caithe was staring straight at Felwen, and everyone else in the vicinity besides Oleraco and his griffon were staring at Caithe. She moved to the front of the clearing, positioning herself directly in front of Aurene, brushing some of the shattered crystal from the scales of her head. Felwen stepped back, seeming lost, then knelt down and tried to help Oleraco back to his feet. 

“Just be careful,” she whispered as she let him go.

He found more stability this time, standing on one leg with his other foot barely brushing the ground, establishing his balance. Focusing the power that Glint herself taught him how to channel, he pressed his hands once again upon the biggest crystal he could see; and this time when the wings found him, they were gentler, letting him hover a moment and gently lowering him back down. He found his balance again and stayed standing for a few seconds before lowering himself back into a kneel. 

Watched as the rest of the crystals in Aurene’s body began to vibrate so intensely that he could see them move.

And one by one, they shattered, just as the ones he touched had, a spray of iridescent shrapnel shocking away from the dragon - Oleraco ducked, and he felt a ripple as everyone behind him did the same. Aurene’s body found purchase in the air for a few seconds before she fell to the ground, wings laid flat at either side of her, limp and motionless. 

Caithe said nothing. Oleraco said nothing. The Zephyrite’s singing had stopped.

Braham said, “What the hell?”

Nobody paid him any notice. Oleraco, both hands pressed into the ground in front of him, propping him up, stared at the body, unable to bring himself to blink. He could barely hear the ringing anymore, just felt his lungs fill with Aurene’s energy, making him feel simultaneously like he was suffocating, and like he’d never need to breathe again.

She moved, almost imperceptibly. Caithe stumbled back in Oleraco’s peripheral vision and Aurene moved again.

“How?” Taimi’s voice was shaking.

And then Aurene _spoke,_ and Oleraco’s lungs filled again, feeling like it was the first breath he’d ever taken. She lifted her head, just barely, and opened one eye.

“Eating a lich...has its benefits.”

There was a wave of shocked exclamation from the gathering, words Oleraco didn’t take the energy to register. Aurene ignored them just as he did, claws reaching forward, pulling herself up. When she was stood, head lowered, she moved towards where Oleraco was stranded on the ground, keeping her eyes level with his. He steadied himself and reached out a hand, brushing the back of it against the scales on the side of her face as though checking that she was real, blinking a couple of times as though checking his eyes weren’t deceiving him. She pressed her snout against his forehead and he let it happen for a few seconds, before stretching upwards despite the way every nerve ending in his torso protested, throwing both arms around her spiny neck.

“You’re okay,” he breathed, unable to speak any louder. Aurene leaned into him, the weight of her neck and head pressing against his shoulder. He felt her strength, felt the breath flow in and out of her. He also felt how he was bleeding again, an unwelcome warmth against his chest, but this moment was too important for him to voice his concern. He couldn’t bear for anyone to tear him away from her, and from the way Aurene pressed against him, he was sure she felt the same. “Aurene, I’m so sorry.”

Behind them, he could hear Taimi whispering something - probably an observation about Aurene absorbing Joko’s magic, probably to Gorrik. As it turned out, they all still had a lot to learn about dragons, including her.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I shouldn’t have let you fight him alone.”

“Champion.” The rumbling that her voice produced in her neck was comforting in a way Oleraco couldn’t explain. Like a large cat was purring on him, but a large cat that was vital to their continued survival and that had just returned from the dead. Oleraco felt the weight leave him as she moved away. Without her to lean on, he fell back forward, having to shift his weight back onto his hands. Caithe was kneeling beside Aurene, too, but the dragon kept her focus on him. Taimi was done whispering, and the whole room seemed impossibly quiet. No voices, no singing, no vibration - not even the imagined thrumming of impending doom to break the silence.

“We have a job to do,” the dragon told Oleraco. 

Braham piped up again. “Can’t it wait? Like, maybe a few days?”

“Kralkatorrik isn’t going to wait a few days,” Oleraco said as evenly as he could, before Aurene could assert the same thing. He pressed his hand against the growing wet patch on the front of his shirt, thankfully invisible against the black fabric, looking at how his hand came away stippled with glistening pink. If Aurene saw him do this, she gave no indication, and it was probably in the name of getting the job done. He was in pain; he was exhausted. He was no longer finding an excuse to avoid bedrest. But he knew Aurene was not pushing him for the sake of it, and he knew their actions would dictate the future of their world. 

He knew that if he died in the name of saving Tyria, if it took the loss of his life to preserve the lives of everyone in the world, then, in the grand scheme of things, it was no great loss. 

Nobody was arguing with him anymore, as though they, too, had weighed up the pros and cons. He got on Aurene’s back, held his legs around her sides as securely as he could, and wrapped his arms around her neck, and pretended that her spikes weren’t hurting him. Aurene opened up a rift beyond the ledge where they stood, not explaining where it led to. 

He could feel her energy strongly now, as though they were connected, as though they shared a heart and her power was flowing directly into his veins. It was enough to make him feel like he hadn’t been shot, enough to make him feel like they still had a chance of winning this fight. He could read her, read her trepidation, but also the overwhelming hope that Glint had imbued her with. Every muscle, every bone - every wing and fang and claw, every ounce of her magic...they were his, too. And everything he had was hers.

This was what it meant, to be her champion.

They weren’t allies. They weren’t partners, fighting side by side. They were one.

Oleraco looked over his shoulder. He caught Caithe’s eye, and she nodded. Everyone else just looked afraid, and Oleraco knew there was nothing he could say to reassure them - despite Aurene’s hope, he himself had no idea how they were going to win, and he wasn’t one for instilling false confidence in his friends. 

So there were no words. There was no false confidence, no ‘see you later’, no smiles, nor was there any doom. All Oleraco did was nod back at them, and Aurene dove into the rift. 

* * *

Everything that happened in the Mists after that was a blur. A lot of sky and clouds and colossal, rolling Elder Dragon beneath them. His back was flecked with scars from the battle in the auditorium - vast, crystalline scabs, though none severe enough to significantly impede his movement. They were moving faster than Oleraco could register, with clouds and fragments of shattered, broken rock zipping past. 

All Oleraco could do was hold onto Aurene as tightly as he could as she swooped down closer to attack, retreated to their vantage spot far above Kralkatorrik, then rinsed and repeated.

“What is he doing?“ Oleraco tried to call at one point, over the sound of wind rushing past his ears. As he spoke, the air in front of them tore open, a crackling fissure wide enough to comfortably accommodate an Elder Dragon. Aurene’s wings drew close to her body and she dove down close to Kralkatorrik’s back, the speed of their descent enough to make Oleraco see stars. He tried to make out what was on the other side, but just saw more misty, white sky. 

“He’s trying to lose us,” Aurene responded as they cleared the rift, now soaring above a cluster of floating verdant islands. Huge trees stitched the fragments together with their vast root systems, linking up the landmasses like a chain. Aurene’s voice was clear above the noise, as though she was speaking directly into his mind. “Opening portals to different places in the Mists.”

“Then we need to figure out how to get him back to Tyria!”

Another dive silenced him as Kralkatorrik’s tail swiped at them, like a dolyak to a fly. Aurene shot off a few beams of energy at weak spots they passed - gaps between crystalline scales; still-healing wounds; thin, leathery patches of wing. Occasionally Krakatorrik would flinch and try to dodge away from their attacks, but he remained mostly unaffected, barrelling ahead with the force of a whole fleet of airships. 

It went on like that for a while - Aurene pulling most of the weight, delivering her Branded beams wherever she saw fit, deftly dodging any retaliation that Kralkatorrik attempted, as Oleraco concentrated on hanging on and, in the back of his mind, trying to figure out what to do next. They could just carry on like this, chipping away at his health until Oleraco inevitably grew too exhausted to remain on Aurene’s back and fell into the void. 

He felt his grip weakening already, and he knew they couldn’t just let the dragon get away. 

“Can you open up a rift big enough for him to fit through?”

”I can try!”

Aurene pulled back, pausing her assault on her grandfather’s flank to momentarily conserve her energy. Their pace slowed just long enough for another tear to open up ahead, through which Oleraco saw vast, flat ocean - it was small at first, and appeared less quickly than the one Kralkatorrik had made, and as a result, the behemoth managed to dodge beneath it.

“Shit,” Oleraco breathed. Aurene had barely reacted to her failure, determined to get it right. 

Another rift opened, ripping the sky in two, and the dragon began to pass through it. Oleraco was about to commend Aurene on a more successful attempt, but she interrupted him: “That’s not mine!”

There was another landscape beneath them as they continued their pursuit through the rift - a dusty, desolate wasteland, studded with bone and tall, sharp formations of rock. Oleraco leaned in close to Aurene’s head. “Are we -?”

“Realms of the Six. Melandru, now Grenth.”

“What’s he doing _here?”_

“We absorbed Balthazar’s power when you defeated him.” Aurene’s voice was grim, and she looked over her shoulder, expression displaying as much concern as a dragon’s face could muster. “Maybe he’s hungry for more.”

Oleraco fell quiet. He knew the gods were gone - Kormir herself had told him so - but maybe, here in their domains, there was enough connection to them that Kralkatorrik _could_ sap some of their energy. Maybe there was just enough of a grasp remaining here from wherever they’d disappeared to. The idea of the dragon possessing the power of two, three, _all six_ of the human gods was a daunting one. 

“We need to find a way to stun him; make it harder for him to dodge.” 

Without giving her rider a chance to respond, Aurene descended upon Kralkatorrik’s left wing, swooping and dodging and sending out beam of light after beam of light, with a ferocity she’d only managed to near when she’d saved Oleraco from Joko. Increasingly, Kralkatorrik was flinching and roaring and attempting to steer away from her attacks. 

Then the two of them were engulfed in violet light. Oleraco felt the presence of its energy like tiny needles in his skin, felt Aurene’s back arc. She was charging an attack. 

“Three…” Kralkatorrik had evened out his course now that Aurene had paused. 

Oleraco held on so tight he felt her spines breaking the skin on his arms. He tried his hardest not to look down, but instead at the Elder Dragon they were fighting - the _Elder Dragon they were fighting_ , just him and Aurene. No group of people, no formations, no secret sneak attacks within the Dream. 

Just scion and champion, versus one of the greatest magical forces on the planet. 

“Two…” The light was growing so bright that Oleraco could barely see beyond it. Where they had been flying almost ahead of Kralkatorrik, Aurene had slowed to focus, and now they were in line with his shoulder. Far ahead, if he squinted, Oleraco could see another rift begin to open - another slow one that almost seemed to be beneath them. Aurene’s doing. 

“One!”

The light was gone. The beam that left Aurene was bigger than she was, blindingly bright, and the force of all that power leaving her body shoved them backwards a dozen feet. It collided perfectly with Kralkatorrik’s wing, near his shoulder blade - and just as the rift got near, and big enough for the dragon to fit through, the wing was severed in a bright flash of light and purple blood. 

There should have been celebration between them, but there was not.

Aurene was flagging, tired from the exertion, and the two of them hung above as Kralkatorrik and his wing both fell through the portal into the Tyrian ocean below. Once he was clear of the portal, and not going to return, they dove. 


	4. Chapter 4

Oleraco woke up on the ground. 

Aurene was beside him, curled up with her body pressed against his side, in what seemed to be a conscious effort to let him know she was there. Beneath him was sun-warmed stone, and above was a vast blue sky. 

He could hear a storm, though. Booming thunder not as distant as he would have liked it to be. 

“There’s a fleet coming,” Aurene told him with a gentle nudge of her snout, once she noticed he was awake. He raised a hand to place on top of her head, keeping his eyes closed when the sun grew too bright. “They’ll take care of you.”

“Kralkatorrik?”

“He’s not dead.” Her head moved away from his hand as she stood up, looking down on him. Oleraco only now began to realise just how big she’d gotten, how strong she was now compared to the tiny thing that came out of the egg. And she was a force to be reckoned with. Oleraco tried not to choke on the pride that welled up in his throat “I have to go.”

“Aurene -“

“I’ll be careful.” Oleraco felt the smooth scale of her snout nudge against the side of his face, and he swallowed. “Stay safe, champion.”

And with that, he just saw the small sheen of dust kicked up from the ground as she took off. Oleraco tried to sit up to watch her go, but she had already disappeared behind one of the many sheer rock faces that surrounded him. This place was unfamiliar. Beyond the island he was on, he saw ocean - far beneath, separated from him by a cliff. On an adjacent island, he could see swathes of green, grass and trees and vines. To the west: harsh, crackling violet. Sharp crystals. 

The impossibly large tail of a dying Elder Dragon swishing to and fro like an angry cat’s. 

He sat up, crawled degradingly to a nearby pillar, and used it to ease himself to his feet. There was no way he was going anywhere from here, not with his leg, so he just leaned and observed his surroundings. Kralkatorrik wasn’t moving, disabled by their attacks, and he could still hear the rumbling storm - though it didn’t seem to be getting any closer. 

Time passed quickly. Oleraco wasn’t sure whether he’d fallen asleep, somehow, without falling to the ground. Barely an hour later, he heard the creaking of an airship’s ropes behind him, though he had no way of seeing the source of the sound. There was a scraping noise as the metal hull scratched along the cliff, and then voices, and footsteps. A lot of them, charging off the gangplank, ordered ahead by one man’s commands.

“Just find him!” 

...Logan?

He’d been standing for too long, with no good reason to be doing so. As the footsteps approached, and he knew he was saved, he began to slide down the pillar, trying to assume a sitting position as gracefully as possible. His eyes were closed. Someone drew to a halt in front of him. 

“Marshal!”

Two pairs of hands, one on each of his arms, pulling him back up - they weren’t being as gentle as Oleraco would have liked them to be, but he didn’t have it in him to complain. His handlers called out again, informing their leader of their success, but they were cut off. Another set of footfalls, stopping just in front of him.

Oleraco opened his eyes, and Logan was crouched at his feet, one hand on his knee. 

“You alright?” His voice was kept soft, and its familiarity was more than welcome.

“Never been better.”

There was a gloved hand beneath his chin, preventing his head from slumping onto his chest. The Marshal leaned in, trying to get Oleraco’s eyes to focus on his, receiving only a tired, unconvincing smile in response. 

“You’ve really been put through the ringer, haven’t you?”

He tried to laugh, but it hurt. Talking hurt. Breathing was beginning to hurt, between the dull ache of his still-broken ribs and the way he could feel a heaviness pressing down on his chest, constricting his lungs. But he didn’t care about that - all he cared about now was that they had a _chance._

“Is everyone okay?”

Logan paused, then exhaled through his nose with a low chuckle. “I see why Trahearne chose you. We find you half-dead on the ground and you’re just worried about your friends.” At the mention of Trahearne, Oleraco’s smile disappeared, but he didn’t get to see Logan’s reaction to that. Logan nodded, and one of the soldiers holding Oleraco up let go, moving to his legs instead, the two lifting him between them. 

“You did good, Commander. We’ll see to finishing him off.”

“Not without me, you won’t.”

Logan patted his knee and stood straight, ignoring his protest. “Take him to a medic.”

The collection of islands - which, Oleraco learned, had not been there before, and were made from shards of the gods’ domains cast down into the ocean with Kralkatorrik’s body - was bustling with people. Pact, Olmakhan, corsairs, all ferrying around supplies and setting up bases closer to the dragon’s prone body. The medic tent - the first that had been properly set up - had a bare ground and only a couple of cots, with an irritable charr healer, an Iron Legion and Vigil soldier called Priya, holding the fort. The Pact recruits laid him down and left. 

“You look like hell,” Priya told him as she sliced open the bloodied shirt of his funeral clothes. Oleraco’s knuckles brushed against a cut on his cheek; made, he assumed, by one of the many pieces of crystal shrapnel they’d dislodged from the dragon when they were in the air.

“Thanks.” 

“Where’s it hurt?” She removed his old bandages, uncomfortably stuck to him with dried sap, making him hiss as she peeled them away. He focused on her scarred, war-torn muzzle, the way she bared her teeth with concentration. 

“Hey.” A claw tapped against his forehead. “Tell me what happened, so I can help you.”

“Oh, I...uh...got shot. Chest and left leg. Around a week before that I - I think Gorrik said I broke some ribs.”

Priya raised an eyebrow, pulling away so she could get a good look at his face. “You seen a medic for it yet? When did this happen?”

Oleraco only gave her a one-shouldered shrug in response to the first question. He’d been out cold, and had no idea how much time it had been before they’d had to evacuate him to Tarir, though he assumed it wasn’t _much_. “When did Kralkatorrik attack the forge?”

There was a pause. Priya balled up the bloody bandages and pulled out a clean cloth and a bottle of alcohol. “Almost a week ago.” At first, Oleraco didn’t notice that his mouth was hanging open at that response, and Priya definitely saw it. She soaked the cloth, eyeing his chest. “I’m gonna tell you straight - you haven’t seen a medic yet. If you have, they should be fired. So you’re telling me you’ve been laid out with these injuries for a _week?_ ”

“I guess I have.” It certainly felt like he had. The acute pain he’d woken up with, only a few hours ago, had blossomed outward - now everything hurt. All of his bones, all of his muscles, all radiating out from the wounds Damon had put there. 

Priya whistled. “You’re lucky you sylvari are so resistant to pathogens.” Mordrem were even more so, but Oleraco didn’t vocalise that thought. “If you were anyone else I reckon you would’ve died of an infection by now.”

“With everything that’s been going on -“

“If we didn’t have the time to treat _you,_ there would have been no hope for anyone else.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“That you have.” With no warning, Priya pressed the cloth against the wound on his chest, rubbing in gentle circles to remove the dried blood. It stung, but nowhere near as much as Oleraco had imagined it would; he grit his teeth and balled his fists and remained the model of a well-behaved patient as she worked. “How did this happen?”

“It’s not important.” His voice was forced. 

Priya pressed down with the rag, just enough to hurt - which Oleraco was sure was her intention. “You’re lucky to be alive. Very lucky. I’d say it’s important, Commander.” 

Oleraco set his jaw. The rag, now dull pink in colour and looking as though it had never been white in the first place, was cast aside. With a gentleness and a complete absence of claws that he hadn’t anticipated, Priya brushed a pad of her paw over his chest, attempting to get a look.

“Bullet’s still in there.”

“Should we be worried about that?”

“Chances are, no.” Oleraco tried his best not to cringe as Priya poked at the wound with the blunt end of a scalpel, trying to see if he could feel the bullet if he focused hard enough - he couldn’t. “Doesn’t seem to be obstructing anything. Besides, I’m not sure if you’d want me to attempt surgery to remove it all the way out here.” At the thought, Oleraco really _did_ cringe - though he had no doubts that Priya was an accomplished doctor, there was just too much at stake.

And he was just too far from home.

“And as for your leg…” Another prod, harder this time, and to his thigh; as though she thought he could take it. He could, but only barely, reflexively drawing his good leg upwards and inhaling through his teeth. “No bullet. Went all the way through. Bone’s broken - not too surprising, but it’s not as bad as it could be. Sylvari do better without stitches, so all I can really do is wrap you up and let you heal on your own.”

Oleraco didn’t say anything.

“Meaning you need to _rest.”_

“I’m sorry,” he said, mock-scolding her, “do you know who I am? This whole operation is on my shoulders.”

“And it’ll be on your grave if you keep going like this.” She stared pointedly, finding his arms folded and his mouth pressed into a thin line. Not wanting to sit him up yet, she dressed his thigh with a fresh bandage, keeping the cloth taut, continuing to speak as she worked. “I apologise, Commander, if I’m speaking out of turn. Trust me, I understand how important you are in this war. And I believe, whole-heartedly, that you have the ability to lead us to victory.” A pause as she secured the loose end. “But in order to lead us you have to be _alive._ ”

_If I die, they can just replace me, like how Trahearne replaced Kegan._

He decided not to saddle this innocent medic with any of his baggage.

“Sit up.” And he did. Her clawed hands supported his back and barely put any pressure on his ribs. Charr like her were ever surprising in their gentleness and dexterity, for a race built on war. She went through the motions again, applying gauze, wrapping the bandage under his arms, and Oleraco watched as she periodically glanced up at his face to check she wasn’t hurting him. 

When Priya was almost finished, she looked up at the door, addressing someone he couldn’t see.

“Better be an emergency.”

“I’m not here for treatment.”

Oleraco perked up at the voice he recognised. Priya nodded the person in, and tied down the loose end of the bandage. “Lie down, soldier.” He did as he was told, settling himself down on the pillow end of the cot as Braham entered the tent, Taimi just behind him.

“What are you doing out here?” Oleraco asked the asura, trying on a stern expression. She rolled her eyes.

“You just fought a dragon.”

“ _Aurene_ fought a dragon.”

Braham laughed. “You’re as bad as each other,” he said, and was met with daggers from both sides of the disagreement. “We’re trying to figure out our next steps, and we need your input. I’d say we’re in a pretty good position, but, well…”

“Kralkatorrik’s healing,” Taimi finished. 

In the corner, Priya was sat on the other bed, pretending not to listen to their conversation - but Oleraco could tell from the way she reflexively looked up that she was, indeed, listening. He didn’t care. There were no secrets to be kept in a situation like this one: it just wasn’t productive. 

Oleraco looked between his two friends’ faces, trying to gleam any ideas they might have from their expressions alone. “Is there some source of magic?”

“Probably leylines.”

“We can’t get close enough to his body to find out.” Braham gestured out of the door, as if Oleraco was able to see the world outside. “Worst Brandstorm we’ve ever seen. Nothing can get next to him without immediately dying.”

“Is there…” Oleraco paused, scrambling for a solution. “Is there a way to disable it somehow?”

Taimi just shrugged. Any sort of uncertainty from her was so rare that whenever she didn’t know an answer to a question, Oleraco was struck with unbridled terror. 

“Gorrik’s working on something as we speak,” she offered. Oleraco looked away for a moment, realising that his fear had made itself apparent on his face, running his hand up and down his upper arm as a way to exorcise some of his nerves. Braham tapped his open palm against his back.

“We’ll figure something out, Commander. We got this.”

“I can at least come and help with the planning.” He tried not to sound _too_ desperate. Taimi looked to be ready to dash his hopes - probably tired, herself, of people telling her to rest - but Braham cut her off with a wave of his hand, frowning.

“Hey,” he said, looking over his shoulder to address Priya, who glanced up at him without raising her head. She uncrossed one paw and her tail flicked where it hung off the spare cot. “You got any crutches hanging around?”

“I do.” Another flick of the tail. “Not that you can have them. I’m here on the Marshal’s orders, and so is my patient. You’ll have to get his permission first.” Oleraco wanted to argue about how Dragon’s Watch wasn’t technically under the Pact’s jurisdiction, therefore Logan had no say in what he did - but he also acknowledged that he needed crutches if he was going to get anywhere without Sage’s help.

Braham leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Alright. Guess he’ll just have to walk out of here without them.”

“Braham -” Oleraco began, but the norn would not be swayed.

“No, Commander, we need your help, and you’re gonna walk to our tent if it kills you.”

“He’s gonna re-break his ribs if he tries to use crutches,” Priya tried to reason. “Do you want him to puncture a lung?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Braham responded, but Priya had already stood up, and was leaving the tent, having recognised an unstoppable force when she’d seen one. Nobody stopped her - Braham just looked between Taimi and Oleraco as though he’d achieved something, before his expression fell slightly. “Wait, did she mean that? The rib thing?”

“I hate to admit to a hole in my knowledge, Braham, but neither of us are chirurgeons,” Taimi said, and Oleraco made a noncommittal noise. A few minutes later, Priya returned, holding a pair of T-shaped wooden sticks, with handles protruding from them about halfway down their length. 

“Pretty sure these are human size, so they’ll do.” She handed them to Braham in one large fist. “If he hurts himself, it’s not on me. Got that?”

“Loud and clear,” Braham grinned back, and Priya looked as Oleraco as if to ask for backup - which, of course, he couldn’t offer her, being just as winded by the situation as she was. Taimi threw up her hands.

“This isn’t my idea, either.”

“Well, I’ll accept credit for it later, when the Commander’s not complaining about being restrained to a bed. Right, Commander?”

Oleraco edged himself off the cot, taking one crutch from Braham and securing it under his left arm before attempting to stand with its help. Yes, the pressure of it hurt his chest, but the prospect of walking unaided for the first time in a week was an attractive one, and he hardly felt like he was going to end up any worse off than he was now. He was tired, though - he wouldn’t admit it, but he would have appreciated some sleep.

But, well, they had a dragon to kill.

“Right, Braham.”

Taimi and Braham headed to the tent’s opening, but Oleraco lingered behind, grabbing the other crutch and looking at Priya. “Thank you.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Well...thank you anyway. If Logan gets on your ass about this, send him my way, alright?”

The charr gave him a wry smile, closing her supply bag with a snap of its clasp. “You got it, Commander. Be careful out there.”

Oleraco nodded, and proceeded to take the few feet to the door to get accustomed to using the crutches, and how to distribute his weight in a way that didn’t hurt his ribs too badly. By the time he caught up with his friends, he was moving at their pace - well, Taimi’s pace at least - without much complaint. 

“What’s _he_ doing here?” asked Gorrik without looking up, when they entered Dragon’s Watch’s makeshift base. Taimi went ahead to take a look at what he was working on, and Oleraco paused at the door. 

“Nice to see you too, Gorrik,” he smiled. 

The asura spared only a second to return the expression before moving onto the matter at hand, waving Oleraco around to look at their workspace. “We’ve located some leylines under the dragon’s body. He’s using them to regenerate.”

“Anything on the Brandstorm?” Taimi prompted him. Gorrik rolled his shoulders and started to tap away at a screen. Oleraco, now standing behind them, observed in silence - he could see the dragon’s body, a big purple outline, and bright blue dots scattered around it. As he watched, two of those dots disappeared. Gorrik looked up.

“Some were within our reach,” he said. “Those weren’t the problem.” His finger drew an air circle around three dots that seemed to be southwest of them, clustered close together. “These are within the storm, and they’re big. There’s also the matter of Dragonsblood weapons…”

“What happened to the old ones?” He’d been asleep for too long. 

Braham’s brow creased. “They weren’t strong enough. Taimi thinks -“

“Taimi _knows,”_ she interrupted, “that we need fresh blood, from a live dragon, if they’re going to do any significant damage. And we’ve got an endless source lying basically at our feet.”

“But we can’t get close,” Oleraco said, taking a perch on an empty workbench behind him. 

“You severed his wing, remember? It landed away from him, on the southeast island. Melandru’s. We need to send someone up there to gather some blood.”

“Not you,” Braham said when Oleraco tried to stand up again. “We’ll find a volunteer.”

Gorrik cleared his throat, not-so-subtly drawing their attention back to him. On the screen now was some sort of blueprint, a frame with a glass sphere atop it. “Back to the topic of the storm, I have this.” He zoomed out, and Oleraco saw three of them on the islands, each sending arcs of violet energy into the dragon’s body. “The idea is that they stun Kralkatorrik by emitting a frequency identical to his own, temporarily removing the Brandstorm. They have some ley blocking properties, too, as a bonus.”

“Vibrations?” Taimi cocked her hip. 

Gorrik, sensing her judgement, pushed his glasses up his nose. “It’s what Branded function on.”

“It’s what I’ve been using to destroy the crystals,” Oleraco offered. 

“I’m aware of that. But isn’t there a way to completely block Kralkatorrik’s magic? So we don’t have a time limit?” The way she asked indicated that there _was_ a way, and she knew about it.

“Yes,” Gorrik said, but he was gesturing towards the tent’s door. “But we don’t have the resources, or the manpower, or the _time.”_

Braham, who had been setting up a cot to the side of the tent, took up his bow. “I’m gonna go find someone stupid enough to get us some dragon blood.” He tilted his head towards Oleraco, who had been staring absently at Gorrik’s screen for some time now. “And you’re gonna get some sleep.”

“Yes, Commander,” Oleraco hit back. Braham rolled his eyes and walked out, and he was left with just Taimi looking at him. 

She walked over and stood next to him, her side against his leg, watching as Gorrik tweaked the blueprint for the Brandstorm disruptor. Oleraco wasn’t sure how much time passed before he felt Taimi’s hand reach up and touch his. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked her. 

Her expression fell somewhat. “Well, you know…” A weak laugh. “I don’t have many good things to say about all this stuff, but at least it’s distracting.” She wasn’t being prickly about it anymore - whether it was because they’d worn her down, or because he was similarly refined to resting, Oleraco couldn’t be sure. 

His hand squeezed hers gently. “We’ll find a way to help you, Taimi.”

“Yeah,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced, looking away from the Commander’s face to watch Gorrik again. “Yeah.” Oleraco knew not to push her any further; he wouldn’t want to be, if he were in her position. Everything was scary right now. He wasn’t sure if the ‘end’ that Taimi had mentioned made things more or less scary for her. 

“What about you, Commander?” Gorrik intruded. “Are you ever going to walk again, or what?”

Taimi stiffened, torn abruptly from the moment, and Oleraco gave a surprised laugh. “Gorrik!” she hissed. 

“Just asking. We can probably set you up with some top-of-the-line prosthetics -“

“- well, Gorrik can’t, unless you want a leg made of bugs.” Gorrik scowled at her. She punched his arm. 

“Hence the royal ‘we’,” he mumbled, losing his puffed chest. 

Oleraco shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, but he was smiling. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Gorrik, but thank you for the offer.” He took up his other crutch and made his way over to the cot Braham had erected, hearing the faint tapping of Gorrik’s fingers on the screen return. When he looked back in order to sit on the edge, Taimi was staring at him.

“You alright?”

She shook her head. “I’m just...he’s still out there, Commander. We haven’t found him yet.”

Oleraco narrowed his eye, gingerly lowering himself onto the bed. “Who? Damon?” A sage nod. She was wringing her hands together, as though she somehow thought this ‘failure’ was something she needed forgiveness for. “Taimi, it’s fine.”

“No, it is _not_ fine!” Her outburst surprised Oleraco, who felt his horn-like ears flatten slightly against the sides of his head without his input. Taimi blinked, as though she’d shocked even herself, then averted her eyes, face downturned. “He’s not gonna let you get away next time.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“You don’t know that, Commander.” It took her a few beats to look back up at him, and when she did, she saw the smile he was trying on. It confused her at first, before he spoke.

“There won’t be a next time, because the moment I see his stupid face again, I’m going to shoot him in the mouth.” His words were slower and more deliberate than she was used to, like he was trying too hard to lie, trying too hard to convince her of his confidence. It, apparently, did not work.

She sloped over to him, patting him on the shoulder, with a returned smile just as unconvincing as his was. “You’re not allowed to be alone until we find him.” She was headed back towards her station before he could respond, and it was enough for him to know that the conversation was over. He looked over at Gorrik, who paid him no notice, attentively optimising his blueprints. 

And then there was nothing left for him to do besides sleep.

* * *

“Commander!”

Oleraco had only barely opened his eye when something beat down on the canvas roof of the tent, a vicious wind rippling the flaps that comprised the door. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, just that it was still light outside, the glow only barely reaching through the walls - or perhaps he’d slept through the whole night, or perhaps it never went dark on Dragonfall. Gorrik wasn’t anywhere in sight, and Taimi was outside; she was the one calling out to him. “Commander!” came her voice again, closer to the entrance this time.

He swung his legs off the side of the cot to find his crutches absent. At that moment, bright light burst into the tent as something barrelled through the flap, something bright blue and the size of a dolyak. Aurene, holding both crutches in her mouth, thrusting them towards him as if it was supposed to mean something.

“We have a job to do,” she said, and her mouth didn’t move. She was still now - though she took up most of the space inside of the tent, she was careful not to knock anything over. Her head turned to the side so that one bright amber eye could focus on her champion, expectant.

Oleraco, still confused, extended one hand to take the crutches from her jaws, and steadied himself upon them while she waited. “And what job is that?”

Taimi entered the tent. “We’ve disabled every leyline, apart from the three underneath him. The Brandstorm disruptors are all set up, and we can get you close enough to finish him off - you just need to be quick.”

There was a moment where Oleraco just glanced wordlessly between them, unsure whether there was something he was missing, as there usually was.

“ _Quick,”_ Taimi reminded him. She was holding something, something taller than she was - a Dragon’s Blood spear. One of the new ones, deadlier than ever. Oleraco took it gently from her grip, looking it over. 

“Yes, I got that, but - didn’t you tell me I’m not allowed to be alone? Aren’t you going to tell me I need to go back to bed?”

Taimi’s face was that of an asura who knew she didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Aurene’s face was that of a dragon who knew she’d made the decision for all of them, and who knew nobody in a million years was going to argue with her. She had to be involved in this - and she had to have her champion involved, too.

“You’re coming with me,” Aurene said.

“I see.” 

Taimi stood by the cot with her arms folded as Oleraco got, once again, onto Aurene’s back, pinning one crutch between his knee and her flank, in case he should need it. He felt better for having slept, but in no way did he feel prepared to kill a dragon. Let alone his _first_ dragon, if you didn’t count Mordremoth - which he didn’t, despite the fact that everyone else did. He felt stronger atop her now, and the reassurance he felt by being in such close contact with her was enough to steady his resolve.

“This is it,” he said under his breath, as though he himself couldn’t believe it. 

“This is it,” Aurene said back.

She tensed to carry him away, but Taimi, who had been rocking with uncertainty on the balls of her feet, stopped her before she could. “Please be careful.”

Oleraco didn’t have any promises left to make to her. He straightened his back and smiled, cocking his middle and index fingers in a salute to her - he got a smile in return, and that was all he wanted. He leaned forward, digging his fingers into gaps between Aurene’s scales, and she bounded off - quickly as she could, towards a cliff’s edge, where she dropped a few feet before catching the wind beneath her wings and sailing away across the ocean.

“Where are we going?”

“We’ll get there. I wanted to speak with you first.”

Something in his stomach tightened, but he pushed the feeling away, focusing on the flat, dark waters beneath them. "Go ahead.”

Aurene tilted, and they reversed their route, back towards the craggy islands. They were higher up now than they were when they started - Oleraco could see four discrete zones in the landmass besides the one they’d just left. One thick and green, one empty and dark, one scattered with charcoal and blazing with fire burning beneath the surface rock. The last, encased with crystal, sparkling and deadly in the ocean sun. 

Three gods and a dragon. Melandru and Grenth and Balthazar and Kralkatorrik.

“This isn’t going to be easy.”

“I never assumed that it was.”

Aurene banked and flew low across a bridge that had been constructed between the first, smaller island and the shard of Melandru’s domain. Distantly, Oleraco saw an expanse of something dark, a purple that was almost black,tangled in the treetops - Kralkatorrik’s severed wing. 

“He has Mordremoth’s power; Zhaitan’s power; Balthazar’s power.” She pulled upwards and they were flying over the trees now, Oleraco looking down, part of him homesick and longing for the all-encompassing heat and verdance of Maguuma. “He’s driven mad with it. I can feel it.”

“He’s almost dead.”

“He’s suffering, champion.”

Oleraco’s grip on her neck tightened, and they pulled down close to another bridge, entering Grenth’s wasteland. He still felt hope in her, but there was something else - uncertainty, sadness. Kralkatorrik was, in the end, her grandfather, and though dragons didn’t have as much of a concept of family as mortals did, Oleraco was sure this was difficult for her. 

He could see the beginnings of the Brandstorm, now, through gaps in the cliffs - it looked as though everything within it was suspended in violet liquid, with frequent, deadly, bolts of lightning ripping through the air. Beneath it was the dragon’s body, as still as it would be in death.

“I sense your doubt.”

Oleraco tore his eyes away from Kralkatorrik, to stare at the back of Aurene’s head. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, convincing nobody.

“It may not be.” She was slowing, drawing close to the edge of the storm and losing altitude. “You need to get yourself comfortable with that truth.”

Her front talons hit the ground first, and she bounded a few more steps before drawing to a stop, just at the edge of the storm. Oleraco didn’t see the group approaching them from the Olmakhan-run camp behind until they were close enough to address him.

“You ready for this, Commander?”

Rytlock, with Caithe and Zafirah behind him. He twisted in his seat to wearily greet them, and they had just as much ambition for him in return. Zafirah already had her rifle out, prepared for the worst. They all were. Aurene was more and more tense beneath him with every moment that passed, the longer she was exposed to Kralkatorrik’s presence.

He ran a hand down the side of her neck, silently apologising for not being there for her the first time. 

“In the event that we fail,” Zafirah addressed him as they moved towards their mark - a cave entrance just past where the storm began, “I’d like to thank you for all you’ve done.”

Oleraco nodded. “And I’m sorry for killing your god.”

“We’re past that, Commander.” Zafirah cocked her rifle and walked ahead of him, standing with the toes of her boots just touching the barrier where their world ended and the storm began. Caithe moved up beside them, her fingers running across Aurene’s side. The dragon closed her eyes and moved into her touch.

“How are you feeling?”

He tapped his foot mid-air. “I really wish you’d stop asking that.” There were clanging sounds in the distance, as the nearby outpost finished constructing their Brandstorm disruptor. Oleraco stared straight ahead, at the daunting storm and his dauntless fellow deadeye. Still, nothing moved beyond the limits, just shifting static and endless bolts of lightning. “How do you think this is going to go?”

Caithe hesitated. “Are you asking how I think it’s going to go, or how I _hope_ it’s going to go?”

“Whichever is going to scare me the least.”

She seemed to be in thought for a moment. The five of them stood in loose formation, listening to the loudness of the island, to the rumbles and the commands behind them. The sounds of combat as any of Grenth’s minions that strayed too close to the camp were swiftly dispatched. The thunder.

Oh, gods, the thunder.

“What happens after this?” Aurene asked. They were watching over the lip of a nearby cliff, where the domed top of a Brandstorm disruptor had become visible. Swirling, pulsing purple energy was visible behind the glass. Oleraco could only hope that Gorrik was right about all of this. “What happens if we win?”

“We move onto the next threat,” Caithe responded.

“ _We take a vacation,”_ said Taimi’s voice through the communicator. Oleraco tapped his shoulder, where it was concealed.

“I didn’t know you were listening.”

“ _I’m always listening.”_

What she couldn’t listen to was Oleraco rolling his eyes and sloping off Aurene’s back, landing on the ground and slipping his singular crutch under his left arm with the fluid motion of someone who knew what he was doing. He felt Caithe bristle behind him, about to tell him to stop, but she didn’t.

Rytlock, however, took one look at him, and said: “You’re gonna slow us down.”

“Who cares.”

“I do. Get back on Aurene.”

He was about to continue arguing when there was a loud crackling from the south, where the Olmakhan were setting up their Brandstorm disruptor. A bright purple light was obscuring it now, and others could be seen further away. The group stood still, watching, hoping this meant it would work. 

And just like that, the storm was gone. 

While the others stood stunned, Oleraco started to limp ahead, trying to prove Rytlock wrong - but before he even passed where Zafirah stood, a clawed hand grabbed his upper arm and stopped him in his tracks.

“On.”

“Fine.” He did what he was told, and he could have sworn he heard Aurene laugh at him as he clambered back onto her back. The three bipedal members of the party went ahead into the cave’s waiting mouth, and Aurene let them.

“Aren’t we -“

“If this ends badly, it’s not your fault.” 

Oleraco patted the side of her neck again. “It’s not going to end badly.”

Aurene lowered her head, and Oleraco felt some of her doubt fade away. The two of them bounded towards the rest of the group, Aurene snapping out her wings to let gravity help them downhill; by now, the trio were a few yards into the cave. The interior was claustrophobic, large Branded shards extending from the walls. Aurene had to destroy a few to clear the way as they pressed on. 

The tunnel led to an atrium. Within, there were three neat mounds of rock, each spewing a pulsating blue leyline from beneath, and each leyline fed directly into something at the other side of the cave.

Something that struck Oleraco’s heart with icy fear. 

The dragon’s face, his open, screaming mouth, encased in his own Brand, feeding off the magic from the leylines. His eyes were dark, but the inside of his mouth and throat glowed brightly, lighting the cave with no need for torches. 

Were Oleraco not mounted, he would have remained frozen. But Aurene ran diligently forwards, already launching an attack against the nearest leyline. 

“Branded!” called Zafirah from near the entrance. A group of corrupted minotaur and elementals poured in, trying to salvage their master’s last source of life. Aurene stood stock still for a moment, before bounding closer to Kralkatorrik’s head, where the ground narrowed out to a ledge, a drop between them and the dragon. She let her rider dismount, and he sat upon the ledge, staring fearfully up at her.

“Stay here,” she told him.

He could only nod in compliance. 

Quickly, his friends dispatched the wave of minions, and set to work once again on the leylines, destroying and toppling rock to render their source back into the earth. More Branded came; and, just like the last, they were killed. Oleraco, left helpless on the rock shelf in fromt of the dragon’s face, could only watch, and feel pride swell in his chest. There were moments, like this one, where things didn’t feel uncertain; where he didn’t spend every waking second questioning Trahearne’s decision to make him commander; where he didn’t see their path ending with pain and death and the destruction of the world.

Even if Trahearne was wrong. Even if he wasn’t fit to command.

Every single person who fought by his side was capable of saving them all.

With a great blast of Aurene’s Brand, the final leyline supporting Kralkatorrik was deactivated, and the blue light in the cave was extinguished. Now, their way was lit only by the dragon’s violet magic, casting an eerie violet glow across them all. 

“ _Go!”_ came Taimi’s voice over the comms, instructing those above to rain down upon the dragon. _“Go go go go go!”_

Rytlock raced up to the platform. The others followed. Oleraco looked behind him, at the dragon’s face, encased in his own crystal. Staring out at them, unmoving, seemingly unliving. There was silence from above, and silence from the radio, as the five of them fearfully held Kralkatorrik’s frozen gaze.

“Is it -“ Oleraco started to ask, turning to address his allies.

“Where’s the boom?” Rytlock cut him off. “You kill a dragon, there’s supposed to be a -“

Caithe gasped to his left. The two of them were the only ones who’d actually seen a dragon die before, when Zhaitan was killed; they’d never seen Mordremoth’s body. Their fear in this situation was enough to fill Oleraco to bursting with dread. 

“No. No, no, no, NO!” Rytlock roared, stumbling further up the ledge, closer to Kralkatorrik’s face, as though he could finish the dragon off with defiance alone. 

“Taimi?” Oleraco spoke shakily, into his paldron, searching anywhere he possibly could for an answer. 

“ _Commander, he’s - I mean, his body…it’s dead. But there’s a source of power still inside him.”_ Taimi paused for barely a second, but that second was filled with terror. Oleraco couldn’t move. Aurene was looking at him now, as if she expected him to fix this, and he felt guilt crash upon him like icy seawater as he realised he had nothing. “ _Doing more damage out here doesn’t affect it!”_

“We can’t kill him. Not from outside.” 

Aurene spoke, and suddenly Zafirah was looking at her like she was crazy, like this whole time she’d been playing with the goal of flying the Commander to his death, and not even the whisper of Balthazar she sensed within her energy was enough to quell that fear. 

“You’re saying...we need to go in,” Oleraco said slowly, easing himself onto his knees.

“There’s no other way.”

“What?” Rytlock interjected. “Through his _mouth?”_

Nobody could say anything else. Aurene was put on Tyria to do one job, and if anyone here was going to give up, it wasn’t her. She bounded past the group, right up to the edge, eye to eye with her grandfather - and released a concentrated beam of her power directly into his face. The crystal encasing him shattered and rained down into the crevasse between them, baring his scales and open maw. 

There was a stony, resigned silence after that. Oleraco knew what he needed to do. 

He stood, moving forward on one crutch until he was in line with Aurene’s shoulder. She didn’t turn to face him. 

“Just Aurene and me,” he addressed the others. “If she...if she dies in there, Joko’s magic can…” He trailed off, covering his mouth with one hand, unable to tear his eyes away from Kralkatorrik’s face. There was a shuffling behind him that he chose to ignore. “Joko’s magic can resurrect her. The rest of you, not so much.”

“But that goes for you, too.” Caithe hadn’t needed to say anything. All of them were already thinking it. 

Oleraco dug his the sharp fingertips of his glove into his arm to quell the rising tide of emotion. He was never meant to do this, he still thought that - but he’d been chosen. Chosen to be commander, chosen to be champion, and he didn’t have the power nor the foresight to disagree with the universe’s decisions. 

“We’ve known all along that scion and champion are to face Kralkatorrik together.”

“Defend these leylines,” Aurene instructed, indicating that the decision was final. “If he starts healing again, it’s over.”

Zafirah broke the hesitation, quickly and effectively. “The Branded will not get past us.” Oleraco looked over his shoulder at her, and saw the same steely resolve he’d distantly seen across the courtyard when they first met, when she was trying to kill him. She bowed her head. 

Aurene was tensed, coiled like a spring, ready to go. “Rytlock.” Oleraco swallowed, unsure how he was going to continue his thought. “Listen. Dragon’s Watch-“

He was met with a snarl: “Shut up. You’re coming back.”

And there wasn’t much left to talk about after that. Oleraco nodded, looked away, dug his fingers down harder into the bark of his upper arm. Tried his best to brush away the fog of fear in his brain. Caithe said goodbye, to Aurene first, then met him with a look that said the same. 

“Champion, it’s time.”

Oleraco got on Aurene’s back for what may well have been the last time; said a silent prayer to the Pale Tree and the Dream, to Grenth, to the Alchemy, to whoever had a spare grave and was willing to take the last Mordrem firstborn under their wing. He did not once think of the dragon that created him, nor of the dragon that he was about to undo. 

He may have been imagining it, but he felt the Dream answer back, like a hand on his shoulder. 


	5. Chapter 5

The airship was small, but it was quick, and was more than enough to accommodate what few splintered ex-Shining Blade remained. The corsair they’d bribed flew deftly, and hadn’t yet asked any questions. 

“Take us to the Pact,” Jean had said. “I know you’re working with them.” 

And twenty gold’s deposit later, that had been that. 

They were a few hours out from Thunderhead, and snow capped mountains had given way to flat, dark ocean a long time ago. Occasionally, in the distance, a sandy shore could be seen - maybe Istan, maybe the Sandswept Isles. Hell, it could be Orr, for all Jean knew of their whereabouts. He hadn’t approached their captain for fear of letting on too much about their plans. 

“You gonna do it right this time?” asked Castor Larkspur, a charr who he was beginning to regret recruiting. 

Jean just shot him a glare that was enough to stop him from asking any more stupid questions. Yes, the fact that the Commander was still alive had bruised his pride - but it had moreso spurred him on. Next time he was alone with the bastard, he’d rip him to shreds. Shreds had no chance of getting up and walking away. 

Castor slung his staff over his shoulder, crossing one leg over the other. His sunglasses, apparently, hid the deathwish in his eyes. 

“Don’t go soft on me, Exemplar. I’m only here because of the rumours I heard about you.”

With the full force of his non-metallic arm, Jean forced the tip of his dagger into the paperwork he’d been scanning through. Old transcripts from the Commander’s hearings. Castor shut up as Jean raised his head to face him.

“Are you going to be of any help, or do I have to make you walk the plank?”

Azari Mensah snorted from the corner, where she’d been whittling down a small chunk of elder log. “You’re letting the ship get to your head, Exemplar.”

“Why they call you that, huh?” the corsair piped up for the first time in a couple of hours. “Are you lot actually Shining Blade?” 

Jean ignored him, but he continued. 

“Weird that Shining Blade don’t already have their own transportation. Weird that you had to go under Sayida’s radar, too.”

“Eyes on the sky, _pilot_. The plank is an option for everyone on this fucking ship, need I remind you.”

The corsair clicked his tongue and leaned both his arms on the helm, obedient, probably thinking of the gold he was going to get upon landing. Castor skulked out onto the deck; Azari was watching Jean intently, her woodworking now laid neatly in her lap. He eased his dagger out of the table and pressed his finger against the tip, making sure he hadn’t blunted it.

“You’re tense.”

“Why the hell would I _not_ be tense?”

Azari rolled her eyes and brushed the shavings off of her thighs. “Excuse me. I was giving you space to vent. Caeris says -“

“I really, _really_ do not care what that compost heap says, Mensah. She can come up here and talk to me about the benefits of meditation herself, and see where that gets her.”

“Exemplar -“

“My boot up her ass is where it’ll - fuck. Sorry.”

Azari was laughing at him, and if it were anyone else, he’d have verbally torn out their throat by now. But not her. Besides, if he raised even a finger against her, her hyena would have his insides _outside_ in a matter of seconds. He couldn’t see the beast right now, but it was _somewhere._ It was always _somewhere._

Her hand was on his shoulder, too close to his neck for his liking, and she felt him brace beneath her touch. She laughed again, a cruel sound. 

“Third time’s the charm.”

“This is two,” he grumbled. “First time we just wanted to rough him up.”

“People have died of lesser things than broken ribs.”

“Not fucking sylvari.” He ran a hand through his hair, a restless, wound up energy buzzing through his every limb. “Or _whatever_ he is. Unkillable. Like cockroaches. Wouldn’t be surprised if they could regrow their heads if you decapitated them.”

Azari lifted her hand and took a breath to say something, but Jean was already up, pacing irritably away from his bench and towards the window lining the front portion of the ship. Castor was out there, looking ahead, over the ledge. From where Jean stood, he could still see nothing but ocean. Endless, toiling, opaque. He could look at it for only a few seconds before he had to tear his eyes away. 

He hated the ocean. He hated being up so high. 

But he hated the Commander more. 

Everything he’d done; every campaign he’d launched against him, every bullet personally delivered into his heart - and whether that Mordrem pile of shit had a heart or not was yet to be determined, as far as Jean was concerned - had culminated in exactly nothing. 

Somehow everyone in the world was content with a dragon minion at the helm of Tyria’s greatest military force; content with a dragon minion being unbound by law or regulation, killing and sparing as he pleased; content with him tearing the natural balance into tiny little pieces. 

Everyone in the world was crazy. Everyone was crazy except for him. 

Jean was not a follower of Balthazar. He could only imagine how it felt for his followers to watch the very thing that had been killing their allies in the heart of Maguuma kill their god. Everyone stranded by the fall of the Pact fleet had been taught to fear and hate and kill Mordrem; and then there was the Marshal, with the dragon’s mind in his own, appointing a monster as their new leader. 

He looked down. His grip had been threatening to pull away a loose pane of metal away from the wall. Azari was still staring at him, lapping up his vitriol. He turned away, brisking past her. 

“Tell me when we’re close,” he called out to nobody in particular, before descending into the airship’s hold. 

* * *

“Aurene?”

Oleraco was bleeding again - a cut on his forehead, a cut on his lip. The pain in his chest, reaching unkindly above its baseline. He could feel, intimately, how much energy he had left, how much he could do before it was over. 

Just laying eyes on Mordremoth’s mind had sapped a lot of it from him. 

But it was over. The environment - the inside of Kralkatorrik - had fallen still, now, a stark change from the clashing chaos it had been minutes before. The dragon’s torment was over, and there was nothing ahead of him but death, and peace. 

He was stood, as steadily as he could be, face lit by a large, radiant orb - made of cracked Brand crystal, as everything in here was. Kralkatorrik’s heart. Without a doubt, the power source Taimi had been referring to. 

Aurene had done most of the fighting. She had destroyed the dragon’s torment herself, protected Oleraco from the shadows of Balthazar; of Zhaitan; of Mordremoth. She was keeping her distance from the heart, looking at it like a frightened dog would at an extended hand. Wanting to approach, not wanting to be hurt. 

“Do it,” she said quietly. 

Oleraco unsheathed the spear Taimi had given him, let his crutch clatter to the ground. Every sound in here echoed, calling back to him infinitely. 

Both of them took a deep breath. The champion raised the spear; the scion did her best not to look away. The champion could feel his arms shaking, from his shoulders to his finger tips; could feel the beginning of tears wetting his eyes; could feel everything that ever existed bearing down heavily on his back. 

He drove the spear forward with all the strength he had left. 

The dragon’s heart cracked. Then it cracked some more. Then it shattered, revealing sheets of impossibly bright light from within - in their final seconds within the belly of the beast, Oleraco turned to look at Aurene, thinking of everything they’d done, everything they’d sacrificed, everything that had been expected of them. 

She looked back at him with the wisest eyes he’d ever seen. Nothing had overcome them. They had failed nobody. 

Thousands of years of prophecy had come to this. 

The platform they stood on began to shake. Around them, every shard of crystal that hung in the air around them was shaking too. The dragon’s heart was splitting apart of its own accord, now, and Oleraco yanked the spear from within it, stumbling backwards with the momentum, watching as it cleaved itself in half. 

And then everything went white. 

“I can’t explain what’s about to happen, Champion.” 

Oleraco came around to the sound of Aurene’s voice. He was on the ground, again - a cliff that overlooked the sea, still beneath the skies of Dragonfall, which were streaked orange and pink with the beginnings of dusk. He pushed himself up - Aurene was in front of him, and she pressed her forehead against his. For old time’s sake. 

He felt as though a balloon were inflating inside of him, fought the urge to cry. 

“But I want to share it with you.”

Another bright light, shimmering, refracting itself like a crystal - but pure crystal, blue and white and pearlescent, nothing like they’d seen from the Brand. When the light faded, Aurene wasn’t in front of him anymore. 

She was in the sky. 

Shining with that same light. 

Oleraco heard a presence behind him, and turned to see as Caithe crouched by his side, looking up at the same sky. Aurene - or, well, what Aurene had become - was, herself, crystalline, her extended wings spanning the whole sky, reaching out to them like a warm sun. 

Then her silhouette was gone, and a beam of light darted past them, before shooting upwards into the sky - into the stars and Mists beyond them. Oleraco was beginning to feel dizzy, and knew it was nothing to do with his physical state; it was like he was looking at something the universe didn’t want him to see.

Caithe hunkered down. She felt it too. 

Aurene, like a shooting star, arced across the sky in front of them, crashing into the line where the sky met the sea. The horizon was split with her light, a line of pure white that cleaved the world around them in half. And she was gone. 

It was quiet after that. Neither of them spoke, just remained on the ground, reeling, full of an emotion they didn’t have a name for. Oleraco was shaking again, Caithe was frozen still. Champion and herald, with part of their souls in Aurene, and part of Aurene in their souls.

Connected to an Elder Dragon, now. Part of an Elder Dragon. 

A closer connection than any other mortals could hope to have. 

* * *

Their landing had been somewhat bumpy - there was no clear space on the islands on Dragonfall for even a ship as diminutive as theirs to land, so their pilot was forced to pull them close enough to the cliff to hop off. The corsair’s face had wrinkled up as the side of the ship scraped up against the rock, sending up sparks. 

“You’re paying for that,” he told Jean, and Jean just shrugged. 

“Is this your first time flying?”

The corsair spat at his own feet, pulling them to a final stop. Jean couldn’t see anyone outside - there was another airship, partially obscured behind tall stacks of rock, and small ramshackle shelters tucked into the valleys between walls, but nobody seemed to occupy either. 

Jean, with Azari and Castor behind him, stepped off the ship, pausing to make sure nobody was watching them. When the corsair skidded down the gangplank in pursuit, demanding the rest of his money, Jean just took his shoulder in the steam-powered grip of his left hand. 

“You’ll get it when we’re done here.”

“And what is it you’re _doing?”_

The group were about to step collectively off the ship’s gangplank when Jean froze, extending an arm to stop those following him, having spied movement at the entrance of a nearby tent. He spent no longer than ten seconds weighing up his chances - if it was just one person, or two people, it wasn’t a problem. If the movement was just the first sign of an ambush, it absolutely was. 

When those ten seconds was over, he made the decision to press on, directly towards the source of the movement. The corsair, clearly deeming his unpaid dues more important than his morals, remained at his heels, palming the flintlock that had been strapped to his thigh. 

“Come on out,” Jean warned. The light behind the tent cast a pair of silhouettes on the front panel, small and afraid. 

Asura. No match for him. 

He flung open the flap - inside was a scattering of tables, upon which sat an assortment of consoles and screens. There was a cot in the corner, vacant, a single crutch leant against it. Behind the tables at the back of the tent were the two asura, staring at him like a pair of deer caught in his crosshairs. 

One of them was blond and wore glasses. The other had chin-length, dark brown hair, and armour that glowed a faint green in the dim light of their temporary base. Both looked afraid, though Jean wasn’t sure who they were afraid for. He realised, gradually, that he recognised the latter; she was there at the battle at Gandara. She was there when it ended so suddenly, when the Commander was escorted away without anyone being allowed to see him.

“Sorry. I should have knocked,” he smiled at them. 

His grin fell when he remembered the other place he’d seen this asura before. Three years ago, during the Kryta inquiries; on the Commander’s bench. 

From the way she was looking at him, Jean could only assume that she recognised him, too. 

“You’re not allowed here,” she said, clearly trying to assert some authority. It didn’t work on him. The blond asura was still frozen, though occasionally looked sideways at the other as though he expected her to fix things on her own. 

“Alright, I’ll wait outside. Do you have any idea where the Commander is?”

She went pale. “He’s not coming back here. You missed him.”

“Got it,” Jean said, winking, before reopening the tent’s door behind himself. “Like I said, I’ll wait outside.”

The asura’s mouth hung open for a second, like she’d been expecting a set response from him, but didn’t get it. When Jean ducked under the canvas, he heard her footfalls as she pursued him, but he paid her no mind. 

“Gorrik,” she said, almost out of earshot. “Do we have _anything?”_

“Nothing,” Gorrik responded. “All we can do is hope the Commander returns with -“

Something cut the second asura off, but Jean was already out, striding out into the centre of the plateau. The skies were clear, and there was no sound - not from the island he was on, nor from those adjacent. The bridges that led west and south swayed slightly in the ocean wind. A small flock of birds ducked beneath one of them. It was almost as though the six of them were the last people alive on the archipelago. 

Then there was a flash of light, and a boom loud enough to shake the ground beneath his feet. 

Jean threw out his arms to keep his balance, looking feverishly around for the source of the noise. The flash had come from further into the centre of the islands, but the sound had come from all around them, like each person had been treated to their own personal explosion. 

“What the hell was that?” Castor asked unnecessarily. 

“Sounds like whatever they’re doing over there, it’s over,” said Azari, of slightly more use. 

The female asura was following him to the centre of the plateau, seeming to think she had any say in this situation. Jean, having smoothed down the nerves that had been frayed by the boom, pressed his index and middle finger against his forehead. 

“I _told_ you - he’s not coming back.”

Jean had a gun trained on her before she could snap at his heels again. As a necromancer, he was not proficient with pistols - but putting a bullet in someone was much more efficient than summoning a cluster of shambling, reanimated flesh in the name of dispatching one person. 

He wasn’t much for drama anymore. He was for getting things done. 

Drama had led to his failure last time. 

The asura had stopped in her tracks, both hands raised disarmingly, her golden eyes huge with fear. She had underestimated him, misread him as someone willing to listen to reason. 

She didn’t see his face, but she didn’t care enough to look. What she did see was the barrel of the pistol staring her down. The Commander was going to come back eventually - and when he did, he’d probably be alone. If anything, he’d have Caithe. Rytlock would go back to the Mist Warden camp to check on the Marshal; Zafirah would go back to the Olmakhan. 

Aurene...well, Aurene no doubt had bigger things to do. 

In his peripheral vision, Jean saw the asura fiddle with something on her hip for a moment, then look up.

“Scrambled that for you,” he said, smug. The asura clenched her fists, but didn’t respond. She probably wasn’t used to someone beating her to punch; wasn’t used to being outsmarted. Let alone by a human. 

Jean lowered the gun. 

“You’re free to return to your tent. I know you won’t try anything. And I don’t want to force you to watch what’s about to happen.”

“He’s not coming back,” she tried again, speaking through clenched teeth. 

“I can do this all day, rabbit.”

“It’s not like you have anywhere to be,” Azari said, earning a scowl. 

The corsair decided to speak up, looking between those present, lost. “You’re not Shining Blade, are you?”

Jean laughed through his nose, lowering his head into his metal palm. The asura, though he couldn’t currently see her, looked incredulous, and the corsair kept looking as though he still required an answer.

“Get back on the ship,” Jean ordered. 

“I want my coin.” 

“You won’t get your coin if I kill you. Get back on the ship.”

The corsair opened his mouth again. Jean shot, once, at his feet, and he didn’t argue anymore. 

There was only the sound of his boots on the ground as he made a moderate pace back to his vessel, slipping behind a rock, out of their view. Jean rolled his shoulders. 

Sunset was quickly approaching - the amber light that had bathed them fading to orange, and now a soft pink. Jean was looking at the ground, and his face was bathed in shadow. The asura was quiet. Everyone was quiet. 

Then, yards away, a voice. 

“Taimi!” it called. There was the gushing of wind, two powerful wings cleaving at the air. 

And Jean, raising his gun towards the sound. Disappointed when, no matter how many times he replayed the voice in his head, he had to admit to himself that it was not the Commander’s. It was too deep; too soft, like a circle in comparison to the Commander’s sharp-edged triangle. Still - it couldn’t hurt to neutralise any threat posed to him, whether it was his target or not.

The thing that cleared the pillars was not a griffon, as Jean had expected it to be - it looked like a small dragon, like a wyvern with four legs, its black scales and curved, bull-like horns reflecting the light of the setting sun. The creature pulled in its leathery wings and ducked between two sides of a natural arch, getting close enough for its rider to see what was going on.

Someone else Jean recognised from the hearing. A norn, bald-headed and beardless. He set his eyes on the threat below and hesitated, looking almost as though he wanted to pull his mount backwards and flee - but, seeing the asura still stood behind Jean, yanked the flying lizard into a steep decline.

His boots planted firmly on the ground. The dragon flew back towards the main islands. 

Jean continued to welcome the newcomer with the barrel of his pistol.

“What’s going on here?” the norn asked, as though he was going to get a straight answer. He wasn’t looking at Jean, but at the asura behind him, who he could only assume was thinking of trying something stupid that would result in her and her friends getting killed by the same gun. Jean didn’t waste his energy looking at her, however, keeping everything he had trained on the norn, who was pretending not to care.

“Waiting for someone. Sit down and shut up.”

The norn furrowed his brow and took a step forward, but the asura interrupted. “Braham, he’ll do it.”

Jean, who hadn’t been sure if he _was_ going to do it, felt a little bit of pride swelling inside of him. A corner of his mouth twisted upwards, and he gestured with the gun. “She’s smarter than you are.” 

Braham snarled at him, going for the bow on his back, but the asura lunged towards him, in Jean’s field of vision - and he saw how Jean’s finger twitched towards the trigger. He paused, lowered his hand back to his side. Jean watched closely as the thought of defeat dawned upon Braham’s face, realising he’d been outmaneuvered, ambushed. Realising, possibly, who Jean was and what he was here for. 

He raised both his hands in a silent _you got me_. Jean gestured with the gun again, and Braham moved to the asura’s side. He felt like he was playing chess, building up a fortune in claimed pieces. It was only a matter of minutes before he’d have one last opportunity to topple the king.

“What’s going to be different this time?”

The asura. Braham was looking at her like she was putting a target on her head, which, if she continued, may well have been true. Jean let himself be distracted by her, looking sideways over his shoulder. She looked serious as a heart attack, her big eyes framed with dark circles. “How many times have you failed to finish the job now?”

“Taimi,” came Braham’s voice under his breath, disarming. She didn’t look at him.

“Bold of you assume I was acting with _finishing the job_ in mind.”

“He talks to us, you know. He tells us your intentions.”

Jean didn’t know why people kept assuming he didn’t know they had conversations when he wasn’t there. Did they think he was stupid, or just extremely self-absorbed? He curled his lip and turned his shoulder towards the young asura, finger tapping impatiently against his gun’s trigger guard. 

There was movement to his side as Castor went to open his big, stupid mouth, and Azari gave him a look that suggested he reconsider. 

Taimi, who was trying to hide the tremor in her voice - and, mostly, doing a pretty good job of it - sat on the ground. “He just killed a dragon. Do you think _you’re_ the hurdle he’s going to stumble at?”

Murmuring behind him; Castor confirming, “Oh, _that’s_ what that sound was.”

Jean just clenched his fists and kicked with all his might at a large pebble near his feet. It went skidding over the side of the cliff a few yards away, but they never heard a splash. A dragon. _Another_ fucking dragon. “ _Motherfucker!”_

Nobody would speak until spoken to after that. Not even the mouthy asura. 

Who he swung on, aiming his gun at her head. “He’ll stumble when he gets here and finds your bodies. If there’s anything he cares about more than tearing Tyria to pieces, it’s you lot.”

Taimi held his burning gaze with all the resolve she had. 

Jean didn’t lower the gun. Braham was staring at him, too, like he was desperate to say something, but knew nothing he could say would change the situation. He still had his bow on his back, still had his mace hanging at his hip, but if he moved for either, Taimi was dead. 

He knew this just as well as Jean did. 

Their best bet was that someone who wasn’t the Commander turned up, and saved them all. Maybe Zafirah was up on a rock, watching all of this unfold; maybe Almorra was about to crash in with the strong arm of the Pact behind her. Maybe Aurene would save them one last time. 

For now, they remained the only people on the plateau, while everyone else on Dragonfall dealt with the aftermath of Kralkatorrik. 

Jean was about to loosen up when he saw the flap of the tent in front of him peel open. The other asura, Gorrik, the one he’d almost forgotten about. A small pair of rectangular glasses glinted up at him, the rest of his body hidden behind the canvas. 

“Show me your hands,” Jean said before he could speak. Gorrik didn’t move, but opened his mouth to protest. “Your _hands,”_ he said again, letting more malice into his voice. 

Gorrik’s gaze flitted between Jean and Taimi, before attempting a stuttering excuse. “I-I don’t have hands.” Jean pretended not to see how Taimi winced at that, moving his finger from the guard to hover a centimetre in front of the trigger. 

Something obscured by the tent’s door clattered to the ground. Jean’s gun arm tensed in silent threat.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“I swear by the Six I’ll shoot her, rat.”

The asura behind the curtain broke into a flurry of panicked movement as it dawned on him that Jean wasn’t bluffing. Something scraped across the bare rock floor inside of the tent, as though kicked out of sight. Jean reached in, breaking into the chaos, grabbing Gorrik by his lapel and lifting him skyward. 

“Exemplar,” warned Azari from behind him, in warning. Jean’s face was only a couple of inches from Gorrik’s. A black mist was beginning to gather around his ankles, and the hand on the asura’s chest was beginning to feel like ice. 

“Reaper,” Gorrik said. 

The gun was tucked under his chin. 

“You had your chance,” Jean seethed in his face. “But you’re not getting in my way.”

Taimi looked at Braham, desperate for any solution he might have; he looked at her in exactly the same way. She couldn’t bring herself to watch what was going on behind them, and spent a few seconds weighing up the pros and cons of leaping to her friend’s rescue. 

The gun clicked. Taimi tensed, ready to spring, having made her decision. 

She leapt to her feet, waving her arms and yelling wordlessly at the armed human, just as there was a deafening roar from above them, and a bright light that made her reel back, into Braham’s side. There was a thud, then a clunk, as Jean dropped Gorrik and then his gun, in that order. 

Braham blindly dove aside, trying to retrieve the pistol - just as the light faded, his hand closed around cold Deldrimor steel, and he pulled it close to him, securing the grip into his palm, aiming it where he’d last seen Jean standing. 

But when the group regained their vision, they saw there was no need. 

Beneath the roar they’d heard had been a scream ferocious enough to break Jean’s voice, and now he lay on the floor. Still alive, looking up at them with one wrathful eye, neck-length hair wild and obscuring half his face. 

His limbs had been Branded to the ground. 

Not the Brand they were used to seeing - not sharp and purple and swirling with malice. No, this was white, reflecting blue and pink and gold in the dimming light of the sun. It did not look like something to be afraid of, unless your name was Jean Damon. 

“Aurene,” Taimi breathed. Jean struggled. 

Now, from the knees down, from the elbow of the arm he had left, he felt nothing - but initially it had _burned_. The worst pain he’d ever felt, like being submerged in magma, or perhaps ice cold enough to give frostbite on contact. He felt his pulse raging, had to fight away the fog that threatened to cloud his senses. 

And boy, he fought. 

He snapped at the two of them like a snake held down by a metal snare, paid no attention to the second asura as he got to his feet and brushed himself off. 

This had to be something to do with the Commander. This was not a random attack. Jean felt all of his anger well up inside him at once, until he felt he must be able to break through the crystals with the power of hatred alone. 

Braham readied the gun again, pointing it past Jean towards his allies. He heard Castor growl, but there was nothing after that. Braham withdrew his threat. 

“There’s no point fighting you,” Azari said. 

The norn was confused. “Then why are you here?” 

“Yeah,” Jean bit, forcing his voice out as authoritatively as he could, but he was fooling nobody. “Why _are_ you here?”

Azari didn’t speak to him. He heard the sound of her boots on the ground. He tried to pull his prosthetic arm free of the crystal, but he felt almost as though it had bonded with everything it had come in contact with. 

Again, the group heard the sound of wings. They beat once, then paused, then beat a few more times as whatever it was came in to land. Taimi looked up and gasped. 

The scrabbling of a griffon’s claws. One foot on the ground, then another, then something else colliding with the rock. The second asura opened his mouth to speak, but Taimi’s elbow stopped him. 

There wasn’t a word as the new arrival paced around the space in the plateau, arriving into Jean’s field of vision. 

The Commander. Tired and battered, dirty with a fine violet dust, bleeding from three seperate cuts on what of his face remained visible. He walked with one crutch, and was wearing pauldrons, gloves and armoured trousers; but his torso was covered only by bandages. 

Jean denied himself any pride at the thought that the bandages were there because of him, denied any similar thoughts about the crutch. The Commander was still kicking, and Jean was on the ground - ultimately, he had failed. 

As he looked closer, he saw that the tips of the Commander’s fingers were capped with the same white crystal that imprisoned his limbs. The sylvari said nothing to him, so Jean initiated the conversation. 

“You did this?”

“Do you see anyone else here?”

Jean bit the inside of his cheek hard enough for it to bleed, simultaneously biting back at the fury that threatened to constrict his throat. 

“What, are you a _dragon_ now?” 

The Commander raised an eyebrow, looking at the hand he didn’t have on the crutch. For a second, the crystals seemed to reach further up his fingers, and Jean felt the ones holding him down creep closer to his torso, burning him the whole way. When he could no longer stifle a grunt of pain, the Commander looked down at him. 

But Jean was not what had made him stop. It was Taimi, holding the Commander’s arm. 

“Are you about to tell me not to stoop to his level?”

That was enough to make her let go.

He brushed some dust off his shoulder, chest shaking in a silent laugh. Everyone was watching him, and everyone who was watching him was doing so in fear - even his allies. Jean was beginning to suspect there was something going on behind the scenes. Something that probably wouldn’t surprise him, knowledgeable as he was about the Commander’s dragon minion proclivities.

And now he was closer to the Elder Dragons than he’d ever been.

The Commander came and crouched next to Jean with only a slight grimace of pain, supporting himself on the crutch with both hands, like it was a shovel he’d driven into the ground. Jean was struck with the mental image of the Commander digging his grave, and resumed his struggle against the crystals holding him down, until he felt as though his joints might dislocate. In fact, he could have sworn he felt the anchor that held his steam arm threaten to dislodge. He made sure to keep his focus on his anger; lest it slip away and reveal fear.

“I could let you go,” the sylvari said, only just loud enough for Jean to hear.

“But you won’t.”

“You wouldn’t deserve it.” The Commander drew out the dagger at his hip. “You deserve a lifetime in Fort Marriner; or to be left here to rot.” He held the blunt edge of the dagger up to Jean’s cheek, and Jean did his best not to flinch away as he felt the cold metal slide against his skin. The blade slipped under the strap of his eyepatch that went over his nose, the deadly sharpness cleaving with little effort through the leather.

“Make your choice, then.”

“Can’t.” He flung the eyepatch away, and Jean turned the scarred right side of his face to the ground, feeling exposed. The Commander tapped one crystallised finger to his temple, flashing his canines at Jean. “The dragon does that for me.”

It was clear Jean’s rumours and whisperings still plucked at his nerves three years on. The Commander stood up, not offering Jean another look. Jean could only see his legs as he limped away, slipping into the tent. Braham and Taimi exchanged an unreadable look, hesitant to follow him. Gorrik stood by the tent door, similarly hesitant to look inside.

Jean heard footfalls behind him, then another pair following them. As they faded into background noise, he realised what he was hearing. Azari and Castor retreating, without a word, nor a threat of harm against them, to the ship. For the third time, he found himself fruitlessly trying to break out of his bindings, twisting his neck to look at them.

“Where are you going?!”

“You’ve lost, Exemplar,” came Azari’s voice, smooth and calm. “Give it up.”

Castor grumbled something that he couldn’t make out, and Jean stopped moving. He lay still, staring at the sky, which was now a deepening purple, feeling the ache in his shoulder where he’d strained his arm’s anchor. There were stars visible now, with no clouds or pollution to obscure them, and the stars alone provided enough light to see by. 

He waited until he couldn’t hear his allies anymore. He waited until the norn and asura by the tent were done debating among themselves. 

With all the strength he had left, he heaved himself to the side. There was a grinding of metal and a gut-wrenching pain as the anchor in his shoulder snapped, freeing up his left side at the expense of his arm, and what was roughly half a pint of blood - an amount that was swiftly climbing. Jean turned his face into his opposite shoulder, resisting the urge to throw up or pass out, and the ground below him that wasn’t covered with crystal developed a sheen of dark mist. 

The mist gathered around his shoulder, then moved down, coalescing in the form of an arm, where the steam-powered one used to be. dark and shifting and tipped with sharp claws. And reaching, not allowing for distraction, for Jean’s hip. 

He felt the blood flowing free beneath the shadow arm, felt it staining the white button-up beneath his armour. Felt how the crystals threatened to cut into him if he moved too much. Felt, in the imprecise grip of his temporary limb, his second gun. There was no sensation of hardness or cold, just the presence of the weapon. 

Braham and Taimi and the third one were distracted, grappling with entering the tent the Commander had swept off into. Jean wasn’t sure who to aim at first.

The big one. The norn. He was armed; killing him first would give him a chance. As much as Jean knew that his chances for survival outside of this crystal prison were low - he was as good as a slave of the Brand by now - he wanted to give himself the best shot at dragging the Commander down with him.

He raised the gun. Pushed back at the dizziness from the blood loss, and the exertion of forcing a necromantic limb for so long - such power usually reserved for quick, clawed swipes. Fumbled with situating his index finger on the trigger. 

One shot whizzed past the norn’s head. Jean swore as loud as his lungs would allow him and the trio spun towards him, Braham dragging out his bow with leopard-like reflexes and training an arrow towards Jean, who did not falter.

This was all he had left.

This was _all he had left._

He steadied himself and prepared himself to take another shot.

The norn was yelling at him. “Put it down.”

Jean smiled, felt Grenth reaching up to grab at his ankles. 

Braham was struggling to make a decision; the arm that pulled back the bowstring losing its tension. Taimi was edging backwards towards the tent door. Jean was about to pull the trigger again, this time certain he’d hit his mark.

And just on cue, the Pact tent exploded. 

Again, they were blinded by the same white light. Jean’s head flew backwards and hit the ground beneath it hard enough for him to feel blood begin to wet his hair, and no matter how much he blinked, the white would not go away. The air itself felt as though it was buzzing, or vibrating, or even singing - like the glass-breaking falsetto of an opera singer. He felt it creep into the ground, into his body, into his brain, until the intensity of it made him feel like he was going to pass out and - 

and then it was gone.

He rolled to the side, gasping for air as the vibration left his lungs. The tent was gone, and everyone that stood in front of it was prone on the ground, grazed and bleeding. 

Taimi spoke first, and she was looking up.

“Commander?”

Jean saw it just as she spoke. Something clawing the night sky in half, almost too bright to look at. 

And when he did look at it, he was filled with fear.

It was the Commander, recognisable in silhouette alone - and it _was_ a recognisable silhouette, all horns and thorns and sharp edges, hanging in the sky like a tiny airship. Where his eyes should have been, there was just darkness, the same colour as the sky behind him, and two angular wings extended from his back. Dragon wings. _Crystal_ dragon wings. Jean tried his darndest to shuffle back as much as he could, but he didn’t move an inch. The shadow arm was gone, now, and so was the gun it held. Taimi, Braham, and Gorrik stumbled back at the sight, and Jean felt the air stolen from his lungs.

When the Commander spoke, it sounded as though it was coming from inside Jean’s head. 

“Give it up.”

“You’re a fucking dragon,” Jean said, not knowing how stupid he sounded.

The Commander dropped from the sky, and he made no sound as he hit the floor. He strode towards Jean; no crutch, no limping, just a trail of blue-white like that which Jean had seen on ghosts. Cold, dead, black eyes. He stepped over the crystal enclosing Jean’s legs, leaning with one foot onto his chest. And Jean felt it, but it didn’t hurt, as though the Commander weighed half of what he should. The dragon wings were still held out at stiff right angles behind him.

“Did you think you had a chance?”

“I did. I did have a chance.”

He pressed down on his foot, and Jean felt as though claws were impaling his chest. 

“It’s always been you against the rest of the world, Damon.”

“And a dragon.”

Jean was smiling as though he was the underdog, as though this was a noble defeat. The Commander felt no need to remind him of his tricks, his dirty fighting, his previous support from the centuries-old Shining Blade. How all of Kryta had backed him without question.

The Commander curled his lip, but nobody saw it. 

“I knew you’d find a way to turn it around for yourself, Commander.”

His allies were watching him. Nobody else had returned from the other islands - or perhaps they had, and they were waiting for things to calm down before attempting to intervene. Jean wasn’t sure if anyone had a chance against the Commander as he stood right now. He was like someone driven mad by the Bloodstone, but it was a dragon in his mind instead.

“And I knew you’d find a way to make yourself the victim.”

“What can I say? You always win.”

Those invisible claws, in his chest, clawing deeper - though Jean knew there was nothing there. 

“You should have considered that _before_ you shot me.” There was real malice in his voice now, like an underlying snarl, as though two people were speaking at once - the civil, calm Commander, and the untamed Mordrem he tried to pretend he wasn’t.

Jean took a breath to respond, but darkness fell upon them all. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust, feeling the Commander’s boot still on his sternum, pressing down harder. 

The Commander was back to his worn, bandaged self. The fluorescent pink sap visible through cracks in his bark lit up his face just enough for Jean to see the conflict on his face, how his pupil had widened in the low light, like a cat’s. Jean could see his teeth bared, his shoulders tensed. He could see the gun aimed at his face, the way the Commander’s hand shook almost too hard to keep it steady. 

Something slipped down the Commander’s bloodied cheek, disappeared into a crack in the bark; dripped off his chin. He was crying. Wordless, more terrified than Jean had ever seen him before.

He wanted to say something. He really did. He never made up his mind on whether that something was going to be words of comfort, or a cutting remark, or maybe even goodbye.

Jean admitted his defeat, to himself. He feared for what the world would become with Mordrem at its helm, without anyone else around willing to try to knock him off his tower. Especially now, controlled by the whims of an Elder Dragon, or perhaps controlling her; more mad with power than he’d ever been. 

The Commander looked away -

closed his eyes -

and pulled the trigger.


	6. Chapter 6

“Oh, good, you’re awake.”

There was a voice purring at him. Oleraco hadn’t opened his eye yet, but he’d obviously stirred, or made a sound. He felt as though there was a weight pressing down upon him, like he was trapped under the rubble at the summit all over again. It was crazy, he thought absently, that it had only been just under a month since then. 

They’d killed a dragon since then. Oleraco had killed a man since then.

He opened his eye and attempted to sit up in one movement, lungs feeling as though they were full of dust, ribs creaking like the rotting foundations of an abandoned house. He felt dizzy; he saw stars, but he figure in the corner of the tent didn’t move to stop him, nor did he make any reference to his state. It was refreshing. Oleraco didn’t voice his appreciation, but he felt it.

It was dark inside. It was probably dark outside, too.

“Nobody else could pluck up the courage to look you in the eye, so I’m here in their stead. Tell me; what, exactly, did you do?”

Oleraco rubbed his face, feeling Branded dust come off on his palms. “I don’t know, Canach.”

He did. He did, but it was foggy at best; like he’d been backseat driving in his own mind. He wasn’t sure who’d been steering; Aurene, or some echo of Mordremoth, or a deeper, darker version of himself where all his hatred and anger got bottled up and sent to. 

Or maybe he just had more power than he could handle. 

Canach cocked his head. He was still wearing his full armour, still scuffed in places from the fight. Or _a_ fight. Oleraco could only hope he hadn’t been out for long; he was growing tired of being out cold for undefined amounts of time. Especially when things were happening so quickly.

“Then allow me to fill you in.” He raised one hand, fiddling with the wrist of his glove, as though straightening a shirt cuff that wasn’t there. “Taimi said you were _flying._ ”

“Taimi may well be right.”

“Well, no. She said first, you Branded Damon to the ground.”

Oleraco mulled that over for a second. “No, I remember that part. I don’t remember _doing_ it, but I remember the crystals - the Brand.”

He felt as though his mind was being searched as Canach stepped closer, slightly more illuminated by the low-burning oil lamp on a crate beside Oleraco’s cot. He had to stop and remind himself that nobody could read his thoughts anymore, but was forced to tear his gaze away.

“Then he hurt your feelings, and you went and hid.”

“He did not - I did _not -_ ” Oleraco sputtered, ignoring how Canach was smiling at him. His smile never meant anything good. The last thing Oleraco needed right now was to be mocked, and _of course_ Canach sensed that, but it didn’t necessarily mean he was willing to relent. 

Nevertheless, he did. Maybe in the name of getting the job done, getting the conversation over with - but Oleraco was allowed to pretend it was because he cared about his feelings. 

“Do you remember shooting him in the face?”

Oleraco wilted. “Yes.” He turned his face away again, hand running through his hair. “Yes, I remember that.”

Canach exhaled through his nose. “It took you long enough.”

“He was slippery.”

“You were unprepared.” He picked up the oil lamp, holding it in front of Oleraco’s face, and Oleraco shied away from the sudden light. “You can blame your enemies’ competence, or your own incompetence. We see how it played out either way.”

The flame flickered over the Commander’s eye. He set his jaw. “If you’re here to criticise my leadership skills, Canach, then-“

“Oh, no, Commander. Your leadership is not what I take issue with.” Oleraco could barely see his face anymore, beyond the blaze of the flame. Fireblind, Caithe had called it in the jungle. She’d shamed them daily for their lack of awareness. “But your usefulness as a leader only lasts as long as you live.” 

“And you’re saying I can’t take care of myself.”

“As everyone is, in their own way. I’m of the opinion that they’re being too nice about it.”

Oleraco hid his scowl by squinting into the light. He had no interest in defending himself against someone who wasn’t willing to listen. And Canach’s was a difficult mind to change. 

“I know how you feel, Commander.”

The softness his voice took on took Oleraco by surprise. Canach blew on the wick, extinguishing the lamp, and all Oleraco could see until his eyes adjusted was a thin trail of clean, white smoke. 

“Do you, now?” he asked, cynical. 

“To an extent.” Oleraco could see well enough to make out Canach’s face, now, and not much else. He was looking at the tent’s door, through which starlight shed some light, and Oleraco felt he saw a frown crease his brow. “When Anise took me under her wing, half of the people I encountered expected me to be on my best behaviour - the other half expected me to fail spectacularly. No matter how I did, I was going against someone’s hypothesis.”

“Canach, what is this meant to -“

“People think the same of you,” Canach cut him off. “You may not have noticed it, but they do.”

Oleraco leaned back into the pillow, not interrupting anymore, curious to see what point Canach was approaching. 

“There are people who are surprised that you haven’t yet turned on us. I would know; I’ve won wagers against them.” Oleraco snorted, Canach continued. “And then there are people, like m...like Dragon’s Watch, who expect you to succeed in everything you do. And it does come from a place of _wanting_ you to succeed, but…”

“But?”

“But it’s not fair on you.” Canach seemed uncomfortable now, fidgeting in a way Oleraco hadn’t seen him do before, as though he was regretting leading the conversation in this heartfelt direction. 

Oleraco attempted to steer it away. “Do you think I would have killed two dragons without that kind of belief in me?”

“You scarcely managed to kill _one_ dragon,” Canach sneered, flippant. “ _Claim jumper_.”

The Commander laughed, Canach remained rigid at the side of the bed, like a bodyguard stationed to watch over him. “Damned if we do, damned if we don’t,” Oleraco said, softly, and all Canach did was nod in acknowledgement. 

He wanted to say a lot, in that rare moment of genuinity between them; wanted to reconcile the feelings about the Kryta inquisition that he didn’t doubt still lingered under the surface of them both; wanted to ask what Canach was doing still fighting by his side; wanted to thank him for all the strength he’d shown in the jungle. But all the two of them did was look outside at what they could see of the night sky. 

“What’s your next move, Canach?”

Canach let silence stretch between them as he mused over the question. “I’m a free sylvari now. I think I’d like to take some time to enjoy that.”

“Back to Amnoon, then?”

He earned a laugh for that - a short one, a shallow one, but a laugh all the same. 

The world outside the tentwas adjusting to the loss of another dragon; the striking off of another threat. Soldiers were packing up. Oleraco imagined that a good portion of them were being treated for injuries. Somewhere in the vast amount of people were his friends, too tied up in what had happened to face him - for which he couldn’t blame them. Reconciliation could come at a later date. 

For all the chaos out there, Oleraco could only hear peace.

“That may well be on the cards.”


End file.
